It had been four days, and their fight still rang in her ears.

Go
Leave
Coward
Replacement

He had never spoken to her like that — so filled with frustration and anger. As far as she could recall, the last time he had been driven to anger was when a recruit shot a fiery ball of kido directly at her while she was focused on coaching a struggling student. Unaware, the kido hit her in the center of her back, burning through her uniform. Before she hit the ground, she was in Kyouraku's arms. She lost consciousness at some point while he rushed her to the Fourth, only waking in the evening.

The first thing she registered when she regained consciousness was a hand gently holding hers. She wasn't surprised when she found Kyouraku asleep, his head resting by her arm on the bed. He spent the night at the Fourth with her, holding her hand as Isane changed her dressings. His presence was, as always, a comforting balm, distracting her from her stinging back. She knew better than to try to dissuade him when he insisted on staying with her when she was discharged. Later, she learned that once she had been stabilized, Kyouraku had returned to the division fuming and had promptly and efficiently transferred the recruit to the Eleventh.

This time, however, his anger had been directed at her — the transfer was also directed at her. She'd pushed him too far. She had goaded him into anger. After a certain point in their fight, she wanted to see him angry and provoke that reaction from him — to see him raw and exposed just like she had been. She just hadn't expected the fight to end as it did. In truth, in the heat of the moment, she had no idea how she wanted their fight to end. Now, after pushing him too far, she waited for the axe to drop — every moment filled with a myriad of emotions.

Since she left her shower the morning, she found herself trapped in a cycle of pain, anger, and dread — all under the suffocating weight of heartbreak.

The pain started in her chest and would ebb and flow throughout the day. Every time she remembered the look on his face, the sneer in his voice, the hurt in his eyes, the pain would sharpen. The burning sensation spread every time she took a break and remembered that she would soon lose the Eighth.

However, before long, the pain turned into burning anger. She was angry at Kyouraku for starting the whole mess, angry that she had escalated the fight, angry that he had eventually caved and met her anger—outdid her anger. She was angry that she had put that scared look on his face, angry at her pride, angry that they had torn whatever it was they had been building, and angry that she had willingly allowed herself to fall into the trap of hope.

Then came came dread. She pushed him too far, and now, she waited for the axe to drop. She'd spent the whole week dreading walking into the office one morning to find the transfer paperwork he had promised waiting on her desk. Dreading that she would have to face that man whose icy contempt erased the man she had grown to adore more than she thought possible. Dreading that she would have to face that man as he told her she was no longer needed. He introduced her to her replacement in her nightmares, trading transfer orders for her badge.

Only for the cycle to repeat. Hurt. Anger. Dread.

The heartbreak, however, haunted her every moment.

She had allowed her decisiveness slip and had given in a curious hope about what they were building and what their future could look like. After her conversation with Matsumoto, she'd begun to reevaluate where they stood. Against her better judgment, she had come to the conclusion that maybe it — they — could be simple. In that simplicity, she found a nascent strand of a possible future. She had hoped that the future they were weaving was strong and could withstand pressure. It had, she supposed; it just couldn't withstand an implosion from within.

The heartbreak was filled with maybes. Maybe she pushed him one step too far, and he realized that she was not what he wanted. She had never been so unconditionally wanted before. Maybe she had deluded herself. Maybe he'd realized she was not what he wanted and was just a lost cause. He always romanticized lost causes. Her chest tightened again. Maybe that's all she was: a lost cause, a project he lost interest in, replaceable.

A list of maybes.

The only thing she knew for sure was that she had broken them — shredded whatever future they could have had together. It had been so simple and precious, and her pride had shattered it. He'd called her out on it before — he had warned her that her prideful defiance would only hurt her, and he was right.

It had been four days, and their fight still rang in her ears.

Then transfer me!

His goal had been to get ragingly drunk.

Their fight still rang in his ears. He'd never had a fight like that, one so heartbreaking that it left him feeling lost. He remembered how her anger stunned him, the hurt that filled him. Then, anger overtook him. He remembered every single one of her expressions: the anger, the indignation, the heartbreak, the resignation, the grief, and the sorrow. Most of all, he remembered how she shut down in a way he'd never seen before.

In his anger, he'd lashed out and used his authority to threaten. He'd used her deepest insecurities as retaliation. In the heat of the moment, it felt good — cathartic even. He waited for her to fight back but saw her shut down instead. He saw how she seemed to collapse inward, her face ashen and her hands shaking. Her eyes nearly broke him. Her eyes, usually so expressive and lively, had become overwrought with grief and resignation, a lifeless and dull indigo he had never seen before. He was sure those eyes would haunt him for the rest of his days.

Go.
Leave.
Coward.
Replacement.

He had been avoiding anything to do with Nanao all week. It had taken less than a day before all the anger left his body; all he felt was hollowness. How could he? He'd been hurt at how easily she suggested leaving, and, caught up in the fear of her loss, he had lashed out and weaponized her deepest insecurities. Unfounded insecurities that she now had no reason to discount. His words made sure of it.

The situation deteriorated even further. She agreed. She hadn't agreed out of spite to provoke him — she took him at face value and accepted her fate. Her voice had been shaky, barely a whisper, when she accepted his threat. When she told him, she trusted his decision. She told him it was alright. She permitted him to send her away if he thought it best. She trusted him and his decision to send her away.

His disgust in himself threatened to overtake him when he remembered the sobs he'd heard through the bathroom door. No amount of sake would drown out the sound of raw sobs full of despair.

He'd been drinking all week, but regardless of how much he drank, he could still hear his words. Any replacement. As if she was replaceable. As if anyone could take her place in his life. As if she wasn't important or loved. She had believed him; the pain in her sobs told him as much.

"Kyouraku, what's going on? I haven't seen you this upset since, well, I can't even remember when." Ukitake was a good friend, but kindness was the last thing he needed.

"We had a fight."

"You and Ise-san?" Of course, he and Nanao. Could anyone else leave him in such a state?

"Yes." He took another drink. The sake would do nothing to patch the hole he'd dug into his heart. He took drink after drink, but it did nothing to dull his pain. Even the normal burn of the sake was gone.

He reached for another bottle, and a hand pulled it away.

"What happened?" Ukitake wouldn't stop until he knew the truth of what had happened. "Start at the beginning — when did it happen."

"Everything was fine. Better than fine; everything was perfect." he relished the memory of that morning. Holding her close, kissing her, her hands in his hair. She had even slept in with him.

"You're sleeping together?" Ukitake's eyes were wide, and his eyebrows seemed to reach his hairline.

Shit. He hadn't meant to say that — maybe the sake was working after all.

"We just sleep."

"Just sleep?"

"Yes. Just sleep."

"And you got her to sleep in?"

"I finally got her to sleep in." He didn't have the will to keep up his usual charade. "Usually, she gets up at dawn and is out the door before seven. But, Monday — Monday, I convinced her to stay in bed for just a little longer." He'd clearly drank way too much.

"I see." Ukitake said slowly, "And then you had a fight."

"Yes"

"A bad fight?"

"Yes, very, very bad."

"You two have fought before. I'm sure you can work it out." His friend's encouragement was the last thing he needed at the moment. He wanted nothing more but to wallow in his pain.

He'd do anything to work through their fight, but he wasn't sure that was a possibility. His words. Her words. Her eyes. Her sobs. "What I said — it's unforgivable." It was. Truly unforgivable. He wasn't sure how he could ever face her again.

"Surely it couldn't have been so bad."

He didn't need sympathy. "I called her a coward. I told her I would transfer her. I told her to leave. I told her that, as her taicho, I knew best. I told her I could easily find a replacement for the paperwork. Any replacement would do. I told her that her loss wouldn't affect the division — that I — I told her I'd have her replacement by the end of the week."

"Shunsui," Ukitake breathed out, clearly too startled by the words. His best friend of centuries didn't even know what to make of him. That made two of them.

"She said things back. But then…then she just gave up. She said I could do it if I thought that was best. She told me she'd go. That it was alright. She said she trusted me."

Only then did he dare to look at Ukitake. He was in no way surprised to see his friend's startled expression. It was a truly startling situation.

"I've never heard her cry like that."

"Shunsui, how could you say something like that."

"I don't know." As if that was an excuse. As if that was all he needed to cast her out. One simple fight.

"But what sort of fight could have led you to say those things," Ukitake's eyes were tinged with anger — good. He welcomed anger. It was better than the look of resignation in her eyes. The shame.

"I told her I needed her to be careful with her work at the First. She was upset — said I held her back."

"You do." Not an accusation — a fact.

"I know."

"Then what?"

"She said I didn't have faith in her. That I hide her away in Logistics whenever there is any threat of danger."

"You do."

"I know." He took a deep breath; it was far too shacky for his liking. "She said that the Kido Corps valued her skills — that I could send her away if I had no faith in her. "

"And that's when…"

"And that's when." He stared out into the gloomy day.

"Shunsui, you went too far."

"I did."

There was nothing else to be said. He had no defense for his actions. He could only say that he had been taken in fear and frustration.

They sat in silence, watching the rain. "She loves this type of rain." His heart constricted with the sound of every raindrop hitting the roof.

"What?"

"Rain showers like this. She loves it. She falls asleep so quickly and sleeps so peacefully when it rains like this." He'd never get to experience those nights with her again. Not after what he'd done — what he'd said.

"Kyouraku…"

"She just curls up in my arms and falls asleep. Some nights, I lay there watching her. She makes the cutest faces in her sleep." He didn't know how to stop. "You'd think she would sleep as stiff as board. But, really, she's a softy. She never admits it, but she loves to cuddle. Most nights, she ends up half on top of me. It's cute. And sometimes, when I come home late, she wakes up and says my name. Not Taicho. My name. I — it was nice. It was perfect."

"I don't know what to say"

"There's nothing to be said."

"Apologize and tell her that you love her."

Tell her that he loved her. Did he even have that right anymore? When he had shredded them apart.

"What would I even say?"

"I'm sorry. I love you." As if it were that simple.

He didn't know what to say. What right did he have to push her any further?

He needed to know. Pulling on his centuries of experience, he covertly reached out for her reiatsu. He traced her to the Division. He found her exhausted and tinged with pain. To his growing nausea, when he probed a bit more, he felt her riddled with a hopeless acceptance that chilled him to the bone.

"It's not that simple. I—" he sighed and took another drink, "it's too late."

Today, he would get ragingly drunk.

On the fifth day, Nanao had not slept well in days, and her fight with Kyouraku filled her mind at every turn. She'd realize how dependent on him she'd become. Dependent to the point where she couldn't sleep without him in her bed — or his bed. A stitch in her chest told her that the little sleep she had gotten was restless.

Her current task did nothing to improve her mood. The barrier kido she was working on in the First was simply not cooperating. She had been working on this kido all summer, and while it was going well for the most part, it was exhausting. Keeping the barrier up took more energy than she expected. Even with the support of the four officers from the Kido Corps, the bulk of the effort fell on her shoulders.

She took a deep breath, "Alright, let's begin again."

She started the kido, ignoring the sharp stab that went through her chest. For the first time this week, the barrier took the right form and remained standing longer than a few minutes.

"Let's see if we can hold it for ten minutes."

The tightness in her chest only intensified, but she would not give in and let it affect her casting. That was until the officer next to her started showing signs of faltering.

"Keep holding."

The barrier started to blink and sizzle, and she doubled down on steadily channeling reiatsu into the kido. The person to her left started to falter as well. Usually, when one person faltered, the barrier started to collapse and fade. This time, however, the barrier sparked. She saw the others pull back. Her heart picked up. Pulling away suddenly would only worsen the situation. The barrier was too unstable to simply fade. It was more likely to implode and collapse the room.

"Wait!" she shouted, but it was futile — the rest of the officers had pulled back.

The barrier snapped, and the full burden of the kido was transferred to her hands.

The pain was all-consuming. The surge of uncontrolled energy ripped through the very core of her being. It felt like she was being torn apart. The barrier was shredding her, leaching everything that she was. Her heart faltered, and breathing became harder as her body desperately begged her to give in and release the kido; however, she had to hold. If she didn't close the barrier properly, their chance of survival would be near zero. If she managed to do so, it improved their chances to fifty-fifty, so she held.

She worked to calm the barrier and felt her kido begin to falter, the barrier consuming more and more. At this point, she doubted she could do anything but hold off the impending implosion, hopefully long enough for the others to evacuate. She'd hold for as long as she could because even if she let go now, there was no way she would survive this. The barrier was shredding her, taking everything from her—every piece of her being was slipping into the calming barrier.

She was going to die.

At that moment, there was only one thing she could think — her last words to him would have been ones of anger.

She was going to die, and the last memory he'd have of her was that she wanted to leave him. She didn't know what hurt more, the feeling of being ripped apart or the heartbreak. Either way, it didn't matter — she'd be dead soon anyway.

She was at the edge of consciousness when the barrier started to fizzle out. Good. She couldn't breathe or move anymore. Her whole body was going to collapse. Seeing the golden light flicker away, she gave into the pull of darkness.

This time, darkness felt like his warm embrace, and she gladly fell into its arms; maybe she could finally sleep.