Alright, let's take a moment to revisit the past...

Chapter warning: sex alert.

Chapter 8: The Spark of Distant Memory

Several years earlier...

Urahara is standing on the main sales floor of the shop. On the counter before him is a small wooden crate filled with colorful round sponges. He picks one up, studying the porous surface beneath the light of a low hanging lantern suspended above the counter. A small shock, like static electricity, zings through his skin at the simple contact, tingling his fingertips. Frowning, he places the small, seemingly innocuous object back inside its straw-lined nest. He looks around at all the crowded shelves, but decides against placing the crate on one of them. It wouldn't do, mixing such harmful material in with the other merchandise.

There is the distant click of a door latch, and Urahara flinches. He is jumpy; he feels like an intruder in his own abode. He has been carefully avoiding both Ryuken and Isshin, ever since that morning he woke up to find Ryuken in his bed. The memory of the two of them together sits there, in a far off corner of his mind, distant but undeniably present. He shoves the crate beneath the counter, intent on making his escape. It's ridiculous; he's behaving like a criminal, like an interloper in his own home.

Like a man guilty of some terrible act.

"Going somewhere?"

Goddam him for being so fast, Urahara thinks as he turns to find himself face to face with Ryuken, who is standing in uncomfortably close proximity, intruding on his space. Behind his usual Quincy scowl, there is something different, something wholly unexpected in his gaze. Something almost predatory. Urahara retreats behind the counter, taking refuge from those pale, burrowing eyes. His hands sweep across the surface of the counter in a nervous gesture, and his gaze flits agitatedly around the room, looking everywhere except at the young man in front of him. He says nothing, so Ryuken speaks instead:

"I convinced Isshin to go out to the store to pick up some sake for us. He is very obliging, so he went immediately." A shadow falls across Urahara's face as Ryuken leans across the counter, draping himself there like potential merchandise. There is a subversive undertone to this seemingly innocent remark, a casual hint Urahara is meant to take. Urahara's heart begins trip-hammering in his chest; he feels cornered, trapped.

"I don't think sake is such a good idea, do you?" he says at last, finally meeting the Quincy's gaze. There is a knowing smirk on Ryuken's face and a languid stance to his limbs. Memory assails Urahara then, and dozens of pornographic images flash across the interior screen of his mind, choice scenes from their previous encounter. It's impossible. He can't fight it. Under the slow, rising heat of his own treacherous desire, Urahara feels his moral resolve begin to crumble, to melt. He is no god, no saint. No pious monk confined to a tower. At heart, he is merely a man. A man who has been left on his own for far too long; his decades long banishment from Soul Society has become a burden to him; it's too lonely a sojourn for him to quietly maintain. So he falls. When Ryuken reaches across the counter to grab the back of his head, bringing their lips together in a brutal, soul-searing kiss, he falls. Again.

And the result is glorious.

Urahara ignores Ryuken's mocking grin of triumph as he pulls the Quincy bodily over the counter. Ryuken arranges himself in a sitting position on the edge of the wooden surface, cradling Urahara between his knees. Urahara kisses him frantically, his hands roaming, boldly exploring pale, angular planes. In the furthest, darkest regions of his psyche, Urahara knows this is a terrible idea; they are out in the open, and anyone could walk in. Jinta or Tessai or Ururu. Discretion chimes a distant warning bell. But he turns a deaf ear to it. Right now there is only want and need and lust-lust for the beautiful boy before him. There is only this sinful fire that needs to be assuaged, doused. Urahara pushes Ryuken back onto the counter; he shoves up his thin T-shirt and presses hungry lips to pale perfect skin, searing a trail of heat down to his stomach. Ryuken is writhing like a cat in heat beneath him; the mewling sound coming out of his throat is like a beautiful sonata to Urahara's ears. So many moans and low hisses. So much for a Quincy's pride...

"Hurry..." Ryuken murmurs, tossing Urahara's hat aside and pushing long, elegant fingers through his messy nest of hair. Urahara reaches down and pries open his fly with jerky, angry movements, their eyes meeting darkly across the expanse of counter top. There is a silent understanding between them: this is not about love, not about softness. Not even affection. It is about a simple wanton need to get off, spiced with the heady flavor of the forbidden. Urahara wrenches open Ryuken's pants and pulls out his already erect member and without preamble, goes down on him.

"Yes!" Ryuken hisses, throwing his head back. He bucks his hips, pushes himself further into Urahara's mouth. A forceful hand clamps down on his hip, shoving him back down. A grip hard enough to bruise. When the Quincy reaches for Urahara's hair again, the shopkeeper slaps his hands away. A familiar sound of irritation issues from Ryuken's throat and Urahara ignores it. He teases the Quincy relentlessly, stopping every time a decent rhythm is achieved. Ryuken starts swearing, pelting him with words unheard of from a Quincy's lips. Urahara ignores those, too and continues to lazily lick at his shaft, like a kitten lapping leisurely at a bowl of milk. It's not enough to make him come.

"I hate you," Ryuken whispers, and Urahara presses his hip again-hard-letting him know that the feeling is mutual. And yet they don't stop. The torturous teasing continues, and its a game, a sick, twisted game that they both know neither of them can win. Ryuken grabs Urahara's hair again, and this time Urahara lets him, lets him thrust with abandon into the hot cavern of his mouth. Gasps and whimpers fill the air as Ryuken finally gets the friction, the rhythm that he needs. "Uhn, yes!"

A crash echoes through the shop along with a shout of "What the fuck is this?"

And that's when it happens. When everything goes moronically, tragically wrong. Startled, Urahara's head snaps up, banging hard against the lantern hanging above the counter. It swivels and falls, hitting first the counter, then the floor. No one notices it. Not Urahara, not Ryuken. And certainly not Isshin, who is standing in the doorway, with several broken bottles of liquor littering the ground at his feet.

Seconds pass, and everyone stays frozen in place, like actors in an absurd tableau vivant. Isshin is the first to move. He turns and quietly walks from the room. His silence, his inaction, is far worse than any ranting or raving he could have done. His silence, to Urahara, speaks volumes. It is Urahara who moves next, abandoning the counter to follow the sound of his back door being hauled open. His heart is pounding with adrenaline; he feels like a man about to be engaged in some sort of battle. He can't believe he's screwed up again.

So much for hoping his 'mistake' would just go away...

He walks out onto his back landing. Isshin is standing at the bottom of the steps with his back to him. Urahara doesn't know what to say; he knows only that he must say something. Maybe fall to the ground and beg forgiveness. Grovel. Plead temporary insanity. His mind is still running through the options when Isshin speaks:

"I knew..."

"What?" and Urahara freezes.

"I knew...that it was just a matter of time before something like this happened. I knew it. I knew what he was, and yet I decided to put all of that aside, I decided to..." There is a slight choking sound in his throat. "I knew what a cold-hearted, faithless bastard he was, and I still..."

"Someone call my name?" Ryuken appears in the doorway behind him, and Urahara retreats down the steps, trapped between the two men and their slowly imploding relationship. Ryuken's expression is pure ice as he leans over the railing. Isshin raises his head, looks him in the eye. It's almost as if Urahara isn't even there: the unwitting, seemingly forgotten catalyst for all this, his presence goes unnoticed.

"I guess you were right all along," Isshin says bitterly. "About Quincy and Shinigami not being able to mix. About them not belonging together."

Ryuken merely shrugs, as if they are debating an impersonal philosophical point. "I never claimed any different."

"So what? What? You decided to sabotage us on purpose just to make some asinine point?"

Ryuken's eyes narrow into slits. "You think I planned this?"

"Didn't you?"

There's a sharp bark of derisive laughter. "You give me too much credit, Isshin. I didn't plan any of this. In fact, I wasn't thinking at all. Not about you, not about us-"

"-which is so like you." Isshin covers his face with his hand; Urahara can see that it's shaking. "You're so selfish, Ryuken. And worse-self-destructive." The hand drops. "It's like a disease with you. An incurable disease. You sabotage all of your personal relationships and push everyone away. Me, your own father, your whole family. But I thought...when we finally got together, I thought..."

"Thought what?"

"That maybe it would be different. That if I loved you enough..." Isshin turns away. His words are choking off again, and Urahara can see that it's an effort to say them. He wants to go to him, wants to wrap comforting arms around him. And then he remembers.

He remembers that he helped cause Isshin's pain, that he is also at fault here. Urahara has made a terrible mistake, and all he wants to do is crawl underneath the steps of his landing, away from Isshin's pain-filled eyes and his gut-wrenching words. Ryuken doesn't appear to be moved at all, but it's killing Urahara; he might as well be in Isshin's place, he is so devastated by Isshin's unchecked display of emotion. His unfettered longing. And for such an unworthy object of affection. This Urahara knows too well.

"Obviously I was in the wrong," Isshin finally says, in a flat, defeated tone of voice. "This-us-it can't work."

"No." Ryuken agrees quietly, emotionlessly.

Isshin's eyes finally turn to Urahara; his gaze finally acknowledges him. Before Isshin can say anything, the shopkeeper blurts out, "I'm sorry." Isshin's expression doesn't change. All he says, in a monotone of truth, is:

"If it hadn't been you, it would have been someone else." Then he turns and walks away. Urahara watches his retreating back, too helpless to do anything. He is rooted to the spot. He doesn't look at Ryuken, who is still standing on the landing above. They do not speak for a long time. Then finally Ryuken says, "Kisuke?"

"Yes?"

"I think your shop may be on fire." Urahara's head snaps up, and his eyes meet Ryuken's coolly impassive gaze. And that's when he smells it.

The acrid fumes of smoke...

End Chapter 8.

Next update: Wednesday or possibly Thursday (maybe, hopefully?)