This is a fic I wrote in less than hour, so forgive me if it turned out crappy. This, if the title didn't tell you, is an attempt for a father's day fic. It is meant to be angsty, so if you're not up for something that'll probably leave you with a heavy heart, please press the back button now.

This is dedicated to my dad, who died August of last year. The coming father's day will be a hard one for me, and I think this story became my outlet of sorts. Perspectives within the fic change, so please pay very close attention to the antecedents of the pronouns.

Like Father, Like Son

"YAAA!"

The slamming of a door.

The sound of flesh hitting flesh.

A growl and a yelp of pain.

An orange-haired boy emerged from beneath the crumpled blankets after being successfully shoved off his bed (and his peaceful sleep, thank you) by a foot that managed to land on the side of his head. He blinked sleepily as he glared at the proud form standing on the other side of his bed, with arms crossed over the chest and a smirk on the lips.

"What is up with you, you crazy old man?" The orange-haired boy, no more than 11, scowled heavily as he rubbed the bump on his head.

"HA! That's what you get for being unprepared, boy!" The crazy old man replied as he offered his son a hand to help the poor boy up.

The little boy scowled further and slapped his father's hand away as he pulled himself up. He stared at his father from head to toe. "Why the hell are you wearing your lab coat? Aren't we going...out today?"

"Foolish boy! She likes seeing me in my full doctor's garb. Says it makes me look more handsome and manly."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever. Just get out so I can get ready," the boy grumbled as he made his way to his closet.

"Well, make it fast. You know she hates waiting!"

The doctor made his way out and closed the door of his son's room. Once he heard the distinct click of the knob, he dropped his happy façade and leaned heavily against the wall of the hallway. His eyes lost all its earlier glint and reflected the emotions the man truly felt.

Today was the first death anniversary of his wife. And it hurt. He had tried keeping it from his son for the past year, putting on a mask of strength and joy whenever they talked.

His son had never been the same again since that fateful day. For weeks after the terrible incident, the orange-haired boy would go home with bruises and scratches, having been involved in yet another fight, but having lost the will to fight back. The young boy would often go home really late, walking around town without a particular destination in mind.

He knew how his son felt, for he himself was feeling the same, probably to a much higher degree. He lost his wife, his world, his ray of light. His son blamed himself—the doctor knew this from the pained look on the boy's face when he would see or hear or be reminded of anything remotely close to his mother. And it hurt the doctor all the more that his son—his young, young son—was hurting deeply for something he had no control over.

A hollow.

Rain.

Blood. Lots of blood.

The doctor closed his eyes as he remembered the very familiar scene. He came much too late. When he arrived, all that was left was his unconscious son, and the bloody body that once housed the soul of his wife.

He had stared at his son with something akin to pity and regret. He tried so hard to shelter his son from his life as a shinigami. He and his wife agreed that it would be best to keep it a secret from their child until he was ready to depart the world of the living, and they could all be together in Soul Society. He hadn't wanted his son to follow in his footsteps.

But that might be impossible now.

He didn't weep when he saw the gruesome sight. He had things to do first; his son needed medical attention. It was then that he silently cursed himself for letting Urahara seal his powers. It had been a selfish wish, to want to live a life of normalcy. To want to give his family a life with a semblance of peace.

And now, that family was one person less.

She was the most important person to him. She had been his everything. Until now, a year after she permanently left him, he couldn't help but wonder how he was still able to stand.

She would've wanted it this way, he consoled himself. She would've wanted him to live on and take good care of the family the both of them worked so hard to have. He scowled as he let his head rest against the wall, his unfocused eyes staring at the ceiling without actually seeing it.

"I miss you."

The orange-haired boy clenched his fists as he stood in front of his mother's grave, but refused to directly acknowledge it. A year had passed, yet the wounds were still fresh.

A shriek.

A push.

Darkness.

Blood. Lots of blood.

Rain.

He squeezed his eyes tightly shut as images assaulted his brain against his will. Pools of water began to gather behind his closed lids and he wandered if it was going to rain soon. His father knelt down, arranging the beautiful white roses they brought on a small vase.

"Baka."

The orange-haired boy abruptly opened his eyes as he heard his father's husky voice. He hoped to detect some sort of anger in it, anger directed at him for taking the woman that meant the world to his dad away. But as stared at his father's form hunched over the grave, all he could sense was fondness as the older man gazed at the flowers with softened eyes.

"I know you would have preferred cherry blossoms, but it isn't in season. It's your fault for leaving in a time when cherry blossoms don't bloom."

He stared in slight disbelief as his father playfully berated his mother's grave. It would've seemed crazy to someone else, but all it did was make his heart hurt all the more. His father's gaze told him how much love the man truly felt for his wife, and that behind the gentle smile on the lips was a longing no amount of words or tears could ever measure to.

He suddenly understood why his dad didn't cry at the funeral. Tears would've been useless. It wouldn't have done justice to how his father felt. He wondered how his father could still look him in the eye after he caused the man so much pain.

The orange-haired boy broke out of his trance when he felt his father's hand on his shoulder.

"Stop."

If he took a moment more to read into what his father had said, the boy would've wondered at how perceptive his father truly was. But all the emotions he bottled up for the past year struggled to the surface, that without conscious thought, he clenched his fists tighter. "Why don't you blame me? It was all my fault!"

His father slowly turned to him, locking warm amber eyes to his pools of amethyst. "Remember, Ken'ichi. You are the man for whom the woman I fell in love with gave her life to protect. Live to the fullest, age to the fullest, go bald to the fullest...and die long after I do. And if possible, die with a smile."

Tears fell down his face as Kurosaki Ken'ichi stared at his father's smile. Kurosaki Ichigo ruffled his son's orange hair—very much like his own—as he slowly turned around to start the long trip home.

Ken'ichi stared silently at his father's retreating back before finally looking at the tombstone in front of him, in which there sat the words: Kurosaki Rukia—a daughter, a sister, a friend, a wife, a mother.

"Mom..." Ken'ichi fell to his knees as he reached out to caress the words engraved in the cold stone. "I miss you." He mustered enough courage to finally crack a smile—his first in a year—through his tears.

"Thanks...for giving him to me as my dad."

And it never rained that night.

END

That last thing Ichigo said to his son was Isshin's words to him when they visited Masaki's grave.

The circumstances of Rukia's death are left to the readers' imagination, but since this story is like a parallel of Ichigo's life, we can surmise that she died to protect her son, which is why the boy blames himself. This meant to be a drabble of some sort, thus the length and vagueness. This stemmed out of my curiosity about how much Ichigo and Isshin truly have in common, as hinted in the recent manga chapters. Ichigo might be labeled OOC, but we'll never really know how he'll react to these circumstances, considering he experienced it before, but now played a different role in the same scene.

Anyhoo, please review and tell me if it was an effective oneshot. No flames please, just constructive criticism.

Happy father's day to everyone who still has their fathers. Don't forget to show them how special they are. Thanks for reading and have a good day.

Disclaimer: BLEACH isn't mine. Ken'ichi is used in homage of Uchiha Xyrille's Oh My Gigai.