Disclaimer: Second part in the series that began with 'All Night's Dreaming'. I don't own Bleach, but I find myself the inadvertent owner of a universe that is rapidly expanding even as we speak. You're welcome to dabble here, but please ask first for permission. My thanks to my gorgeous, wonderful betas! (you know who you are.)
Falls the Shadow
Rukia bit her nails in helpless frustration, casting a glance at the others. Renji was there, tattoos dark against his suddenly pale features. Ishida pushed his glassed up his nose, face fraught with unexpected tension; Chad loomed silently in the background, face blank as he watched Inuoe's glowing hands with uncharacteristic intensity. They'd congregated at the Urahara-shoten; the man himself sat silently on the tatami mats, fan, for once, closed and immobile at his side.
The shopkeeper's face was impassive, his steely eyes as piercing as any blade. They flickered to Orihime's face. "Inuoe-san. Stop."
Rukia's head snapped upwards, eyes wide. She was on her feet without conscious awareness of movement, her own voice joining in the sudden outcry as she shouted angrily at the former captain. Urahara stared back, grey eyes calm beneath the brim of his hat.
"Though your efforts are noteworthy," there was nothing in that calm, still voice as Urahara rose softly to his feet, frame deceptively relaxed, "they are resulting a slightly different outcome then intended." Feet echoed in the suddenly quiet room, the sheer force of the man's presence silencing all debate as he slowly padded forward. "In your effort to reject Kurosaki-kun's injuries, you are simultaneously attempting to eradicate his hollow from existence."
Rukia's mouth opened, the obvious question poised on her tongue, only to be preempted by Renji's rough snarl. "An' how's that a bad thing?" Fingers clenched into tight fists as the scarlet haired shinigami growled, eyes white and wild.
"His hollow is the only thing keeping him alive at this point." The shopkeeper came to stop, gazing down with dispassionate eyes at the writhing heap of fabric and flesh at his feet. "It is part of his soul, part of his innermost being, one of the vital ingredients of his very existence." His voice was almost kind as he turned his gaze to the longhaired girl crouched at his side. "In attempting to reject its presence, you are tearing his very soul asunder. You are killing him, Inuoe-san. Stop."
Inuoe gave a hiccupping little gasp, the warm light of her healing field abruptly extinguished as she jerked her hands backward, face taunt with horror. She shivered, staring with wide eyes at the ex-captain.
Rukia's mouth was dry. She stared up at the tall figure as he examined the body on the floor with mechanical precision. Torturous shivers still wracked the suddenly limp figure, but the violent seizures had ceased, leaving his frame relatively still.
Ichigo Kurosaki lay in a crumpled heap on the floor, one cheek pressed to the wooden slats as he muttered inaudible nonsense beneath his breath. The wracking convulsions that had shaken him had faded with Inuoe's healing light; yet waves of agitated shudders still rippled throughout his frame. His eyes were squeezed shut, hands fisted tightly in the black fabric of his hakama as he writhed slowly, the curve of his neck evident as he tilted his head backwards. The teen's breathing was fast and shallow, his throat working convulsively as he tossed his head from side to side.
Urahara's voice maintained that mesmerizing, almost inhuman calmness. "Your error, in this instance, is thinking of Kurosaki-kun's hollow as something other then himself." The voice was patient, the tone that of a tutor attempting to explain a simple concept to a particularly obtuse student. "It is not. To put it bluntly, Kurosaki-kun is part hollow. It is not a separate being. It is not a parasite, not even a symbiotic entity. It is part of who and what he is, and his repeated refusal to accept that fact has inflicted the majority of the damage which you see before you." He let out a slow hiss of air from between his teeth, shaking his head slowly from side to side as he crouched beside the teen, extending a single hand.
"That – that's not true." Rukia's voice quavered in the abrupt silence, suddenly unsure. "Ichigo – " she swallowed hard. "Ichigo's an idiot, but he's not a hollow. He's not a monster. He, he's different from that – "
"There is no difference!" Urahara's words crackled with sudden emotion. His robes flared behind him like dark wings as he whirled to face the younger shinigami. His eyes narrowed dangerously as he took a deep breath, voice softening to a purr of sheer deadly promise as he all but snarled at the young noble. "There is no difference. Kurosaki-kun is part hollow. That is the simple truth of the matter." He turned back to the figure on the floor, hands reaching for the teen's face.
Ichigo's frame suddenly went tense; the teen gasped for breath as his hands jerked free of his robes to claw convulsively at the air. His back arched in an almost perfect parabola, the pale column of his throat soft white within the shop's shrouded interior. The teen's eyes snapped open and he screamed, voice an eerie medley of insane laughter and choking horror. There was nothing human in the sound. It was a cry of endless, despairing hunger, choked off mid-scream only when the teen clamped his teeth together with audible click. His eyes were wide and unseeing as he writhed on the floor, claw-like nails scoring jagged tracks along the polished wooden beams.
Urahara's hands were relentless as he avoided the desperate, feeble blows from the frantic substitute shinigami. Long fingers wove through the other's frenzied struggles, seizing the teen's face in a vice-like grip even as the teen was buried beneath the other occupants of the room. Numerous hands kept the writhing figure pinned to the floor as Urahara stepped forward, hands clinical as he brought the other's face close to his own.
Blank, glazed eyes stared into the shopkeeper's as the teen writhed on the floor, fingers biting deep into varnished bamboo. Wisps of darkness stained the whites of the younger man's eyes, snatches of night blurring into a monochrome kaleidoscope, merging softly into fierce golden irises. Gold-on-black stated into unyielding gray, long-fingered hands holding the teen's chin in a vise-like grip that refused any compromise.
Urahara held the other's face still, features intent as he scavenged the wild, unseeing eyes for some unknown signifier. He smiled after a long moment, face gentle as he moved forward. His voice was soft but penetrating as he whispered to the other man.
"It's all right, Kurosaki-kun."
The teen snarled like a beast, teeth white in the dull lighting of the shop as he struggled convulsively against the hands that kept him pinned to the floorboards. His face contorted into a caricature of frenzied need.
"Ichigo."
Some measure of rationality returned to the other's eyes; he blinked, violent exertions lessening slightly as he tilted his face towards the older man. Urahara smiled, expression almost wistful as he gazed at the substitute shinigami.
"It's all right Ichigo." He leaned forward, his gaze never leaving the other's face. "I know what you need." Every word was soft and precise, pronunciation perfect. Grey eyes turned to the other members of the shop. "Give him to me."
"What?" Rukia stared up at him from her place on Ichigo's chest, pale face flushed as she attempted to hold down the younger man.
"Let go of him." The eyes were steady. "Give him to me; I know what I'm doing."
"Are you fuckin' kidding?" Renji's eyes were wide as he struggled against the snarling thing that had once been his friend.
There was no humor at all in the shopkeeper's smile. "Not in the slightest. Let him go." All traces of the carefree shopkeeper had been thrust aside; it was the former captain of the twelfth division who stood there, innate authority coming to the fore. His voice was as cutting as his blade, filled with an ironclad assurance that could not be denied. "Now."
Bodies moved automatically in response to the whip-crack of authority in those words. Bodies scrambled to the left and right before minds even registered their movements, leaving the bedraggled form of the battered figure clear of obstruction. The teen didn't move, body limp as he clutched the jointed floorboards as if they were his only link to reality. His eerie eyes were half-closed, lids hooded as he gazed dreamily off into space, air whistling harshly across his parted lips as he panted softly. Two-toned eyes rose in desperate, mute appeal as Urahara stooped by his side, framing his face with one long-fingered hand.
"It's all right, Ichigo." The shopkeeper crooned softly, gently running his fingers through the other's hair. Kurosaki's eyes closed briefly at the contact, arching up into the touch. "Shhh…" The others watched in mute astonishment as the frantic movements of the teen's chest smoothed into a calmer rhythm.
"Tessai." The aproned man looked up. "We are not to be disturbed." Urahara's eyes were unexpectedly serious beneath the long shadows of his hat. "I don't care if the Captain-General shows up at the doorstep. I don't care if Aizen himself demands my presence. We are not to be disturbed." The shopkeeper glanced up, eyes traveling briefly about the huddled circle of fascinated onlookers. "Ichigo's life rides on this. Do you understand me?"
Tessai bowed his head in silent acknowledgment. Rukia swallowed, throat suddenly dry. "What – what are you going to do?" Her voice was unconsciously plaintive.
Urahara bent downwards, arms wrapping around the teen's midriff. With a grunt of effort, he stood, Ichigo's long limbs dangling bonelessly as the shopkeeper hoisted him into his arms. Ichigo's neck rolled limply, body slack as his eyes glazed over once more, oblivious to his surroundings. Urahara turned, carrying the teen bridal-style as he strode towards the door.
Rukia found herself suddenly on her feet, one hand on her sword hilt as she braced herself. "Answer me! Urahara, what are you going to do!"
The shopkeeper paused, but did not turn. "What I must."
"That's not an answer!"
Ichigo whimpered at the volume, hands fisting tightly into the worn fabric of the other's robes. He buried his head in the older man's chest, face twisted with pain and something very close to surrender. Urahara bent over the boy, whispering soft words of reassurance before looking up. "It's the only one that you will get from me." The ex-shinigami's voice was uncharacteristically blunt, lacking all of his normal subtleties.
"Urahara-san." Inuoe swallowed, eyes flickering nervously from face to face. "Maybe you should tell us. We want to help…"
"Help?" And Urahara laughed. Not his normal chuckle of light-hearted merriment, but a sound none of them had heard from him before, a dark noise full of long-restrained fury and helpless suffering. The sound belled off of the thin walls, unsettling echoes shivering in the air. The others shrank back. There was madness in that voice. "None of you know what he needs!"
Rukia flinched, but stood steady in the face of that unstable rage. Teeth bared, Rukia snarled back at him, back arched and shoulders squared. "And you do?"
Urahara glanced backwards, meeting her eyes. His grin was – for once – unguarded, full wry humor and tired pain. "I wish I didn't."
And with that, he turned on his heel and stalked into the depths of his shop.
OOO
There wasn't time to be gentle. No time at all to pause and explain to the children who had stared at him with wild eyes, demanding a simple truth and an easy answer. No - there was only a moment in which to act, and a surprisingly thin body in his arms twisting in well-remembered pain.
Urahara set the teen down on the sun-warned rock of the underground training room, well aware that he had been carrying a bomb racing towards what would most likely be an excessively messy detonation. A bomb forged in flesh and blood, true, but a weapon nonetheless, one he'd had a direct hand in crafting. And unlike some others he could name he understood all too well the responsibility entrusted by creation. You forged and shaped them, brought them into being, but you cared for them as well. Because at the end of the day, they were yours; you'd made them, and you cared for your own.
Though, in this case, the ex-captain could admit to certain ulterior motives.
Urahara raked his eyes over the shivering mess that he'd claimed once as an honorary student, the body and soul he'd molded into a weapon beyond compare. Power wafted from the huddled form of the other male, twisting the air in a shimmering display that bent the horizon into long curls of light. Shadows twined across tanned skin, their after-images darting lazily across curves of flesh as the teen moaned.
He couldn't believe what he was thinking as he felt his eyes drawn to that pale expanse of skin almost against his will, long-suppressed instincts snarling awake in response to the outlines traced by that terrible darkness. His own little secret; one he'd hidden behind carefully hoarded layers of masks and self-imposed solitude, all too aware of the resulting consequences. He'd managed to live with the gnawing loneliness and the bitter knowledge that this was only his just punishment for his myriad sins. Only what he deserved, only what he'd quite literally brought down upon himself - the familiar litany broke as the teen whimpered in helpless need. Urahara gasped, shocked at the sudden surge of possessive affection as he felt all he'd kept suppressed for years stir in response to the other.
Kin, he felt his own shadow snarl, actions beyond his conscious control as it snapped the air with bared fangs. It paused, scenting the wind before curling around the fragile presence on the ground, purring softly at the faint sense-taste of the other. Mine! It whined softly. Mine?
A subdued pulse surged from the crumpled form of the teen in answer, the air around him shimmering as if in heat-haze. Urahara closed his eyes, swallowing thickly as he tentatively allowed himself to reach out and taste for the first time in years. It had been so long…
Pain. Endless, plummeting agony. Denial. Panic. Will-to-protect; all but vanished now beneath endless waves of need. A need that the teen was fighting against with all of his strength, stubborn will still unmatched even as he languished in the grip of primal hunger.
And hope, faint and thin, a desperate, unshakable belief tied to a laughing flash of green and blond…
Yours. The teen breathed it back with every pant of his chest, thrashing from side to side. His lips parted as night-stained eyes sought out the shopkeeper's, desperately compelling. Yours, yours, yours. A choked whimper rose from his throat.
Urahara let out a long breath, flexing his hands gently at his sides as he waited for Ichigo to rise. He struggled for a moment, trying to remember how to use his mouth to shape words. "It's all right, Kurosaki-kun." His voice was hoarse. Such a crude method of conveying meaning after the fleeting quicksilver merge of touch and taste.
The child didn't know what he was doing. He reminded himself of that as he watched the other lever himself to his feet, watched him lean on that overlarge sword of his that never failed to bring a grin to the shopkeeper's face. Ichigo couldn't possibly know what he had promised, what he had accepted; he didn't have the context or the understanding to know what Urahara had offered. And yet – the shopkeeper felt himself smiling softly as the other's face raised to his own, helpless desperation plainly written across his features – the teen had responded to his proposal on a level as subconscious as his own.
"It's all right, Kurosaki-kun." He found himself repeating, surprised to find that he truly meant the words. He smiled, his expression, for once, wholly genuine. "Let go." (I'll catch you.)
He felt the other snap, felt the hunger rise in a towering tsunami that submerged everything in a pall of bone-deep instinct that could not be denied. Saw Kurosaki – Ichigo, now - howl in frenzied need and panic. The dark terror of his sword loomed in a curve of black steel as he lunged at the shopkeeper, drowned beneath the torrent of maddened hunger. Saw the teen's eyes plead helplessly with him, faint remnants of sanity screaming in horrified denial.
Benehime sang; their swords locked in a flash of power that made the ground tremble and writhe in pain. Their eyes met over the clash of blades. Kisuke could feel his own hunger stir, saw Ichigo's pupils widen slightly in recognition. Felt the almost subconscious whisper from the sunset-haired teen.
Mine?
Yours.
Kisuke closed his eyes, and let his darkness free.