Different style than the prequels. Written by request of EaSnowPw. Hope you enjoy the end of this little trilogy.

He would have loved to say it got easier.

He would be lying if he did.

…

It still happens as frequently as it ever did. He's twenty-four now, leaning his head on the wall as he sits there, shaking, with Shinji beside him, not saying a word. He's learned a few things, since the episodes started, though.

My name is Kurosaki Ichigo. I am twenty-four.

Sometimes these things help. He lets out a soft sob and lowers his head between his knees, breathing unsteadily.

I have two surviving family members: Karin and Yuzu.

Shinji runs his hand down his arm, and he lifts his head and moves toward the blond, finally finding comfort in the Visored's embrace. Shinji rocks him quietly, planting kisses in his hair occasionally, and humming a quiet little tune. He can't make it out.

He can't make it out of this mess either, but that's a little different.

It's been nine years since the war that took my father near the end.

He's ashamed of this weakness, this desperate need of always being coddled. He did it when his mother was alive, and he did it when he actually got a partner. It seems that he was destined to need comfort for the minor things. He cries harder.

I am in hell.

…

The stars don't look the same as they used to.

The city is too bright, now, and they're nearly gone. Even if he were in a blackout, the stars wouldn't be the same, because Tatsuki had moved away last year and he's living with Shinji and the others, now, permanently. A small gig at a local diner on Thursdays and Sundays, singing late in the evening, allows him a little pocket money. His day job at the fast-food restaurant not far from where he grew up goes towards the grocery bills.

His mother and father had wanted so much more for him.

He isn't even happy.

The moon is pale and the moon rays aren't what they were. The lights of the city are blinding, but he can't bring himself to look away. They aren't Tokyo, and they never will be, but they might as well be, since he's feeling particularly poetic.

A sigh leaving his lips, he runs his hand through his hair- longer, now, than what it used to be, reaching a little past his shoulders and over his eyes- and stands up. He walks to the railing on the edge of the roof and leans his weight on it. The wind picks up and it seems almost like a movie, except in movies this would be the part when they finally figure things out.

Looking into the silhouette of the city he used to know, he knows that things will probably be this way forever. Or however long his "Forever" lasts, he supposes.

His phone beeps and he pulls away from the rail, pulling it from his pocket. A push of the power button and the typing of his password reveals a text from his boyfriend downstairs, Ready when you are, love.

Instead of answering, he takes one more look at the city and then heads inside.

…

He's picked up his old habit again. Shinji will kill him when he finds out, but he almost doesn't care.

The firecracker in between his fingers is worth it.

He lights it with a match and drops the match in the river where his mother dies, and holds the firecracker close to his fingertips. It's an odd habit, he knows. Most would resort to other means. But those are too obvious.

The sparks are quick, touching his skin for no more than a moment, but when he does this enough, it begins to scar. His fingernails are dark with burns, soot that he can wash away.

He smiles, remembering how much firecrackers used to mean to his now broken family.

…

I am in hell. I am in hell. I am in hell.

I can't get out.

Blood falls from his lips.

…

He's laughing with the rest when Hiyori's quicksilver flip-flop makes it way sharply across Shinji's face, sending the blond right into the floor. He, for his part, gives as good as he gets, pulling harshly on Hiyori's pigtails and biting her hand. She yelps and kicks his groin, to which he doubles over, pulling her with him.

Fights like this are common. They aren't anything. It's the sight of the blood coming from the cut on Shinji's face and the bite on Hiyori's hand that sets him off.

He excuses himself quietly and tries to see the stairs he's walking on instead of the hill he was on nine years ago, when the building came crashing down. He bites his lip hard enough to tear it, but the sight of his own blood doesn't have the same effects as the others' does.

…

He would love to say it gets easier over the years. He would be lying.

It's always, somehow, gotten harder.

Until it doesn't.

…

Tatsuki finishes school and comes back home, a degree in one hand and her new life in the other. The first thing she does is drag him from his home with the Visored to the old neighborhood, where she bought a new house. She pushes the guitar into his hands and demands that he sing for her. He tries to, but she shakes her head. "I know you're a performer, I know you have a lineup. I don't want to hear your show. I want to hear you."

He stares at her, and then retunes his guitar. It doesn't sound like it used to. He's been properly trained, for one, since then. His voice was more raw, back then. It isn't the same guitar, secondly. His original guitar is sitting in his bedroom at home. Thirdly- and he's certain this one is completely in his head- they're both older, and the words to these old favorites of theirs are hard to get out.

But she's happy all the same. Despite the shadow of a failed engagement on her left hand, the dark circles under her eyes, and the jet lag pulling on her mind, she seems genuinely happy. Unlike the rest of his close friends, she hasn't seen the darkest pits of hell. And even though she knows, even though he's known her most of his life, she's like a breath a fresh air, a new person that brings a new perspective. And things don't seem so hopeless anymore.

…

He returns to Shinji that night and pulls him close, planting a kiss hard on his mouth. "I love you," he tells him, and he feels a small amount of sadness that his lover looks so amazed and happy.

"Love you too," he replies, sounding a little dazed.

And he can't help himself; he throws his arms around Shinji's neck and laughs. He feels Shinji's arms come round him in turn, and for the first time in many long years, as he cries into his lover's shoulder, it's not because he's scared, or because he's upset. It's because he's absolutely okay.

And maybe he'll be a little more than okay in the upcoming years.

…

He knows that Shinji is happier. He laughs freely and the shadows around his eyes are beginning to disappear little by little as he himself gets a little better, too.

Nearly a decade, and when he thought things would never get better, he just allowed himself a moment to breathe away from his present and suddenly…

The burden of the entire household seems a little lighter. The eggshells wash away. The firecrackers fade into the sunset. And the blood clears from the waterfall.

…

But then he relapses.

…

One moment, everything seems fine. The next thing he knows, he's waking up to a familiar ceiling, dazed and more than a little confused. He tries to lift himself up, but pain sears through his arm, and he stops moving.

"You're awake," a voice murmurs. It's a familiar voice, though one he hasn't heard in a little while.

He turns his head and sees Kisuke walk into the room, his green hat pulled low over his eyes. He tosses his cane on the floor and he imagines that whatever spirit in that sword can't be very happy with the treatment. "Hey," he says to the shopkeeper.

The man sits beside him and stares for a long minute. Then, "Shinji told me things were getting better."

"They were!" he protests, and flushes when the man pins him with a look.

"Evidently not, Ichigo," Kisuke says.

He snorts and looks away from his old mentor, staring a the wall as he replies stiffly, "I don't even know what happened, why I'm here, why my arm is killing me right now."

"You don't?" Kisuke sounds surprised, and he turns back to see the man does look genuinely taken aback. He starts to demand why, but Kisuke rushes forward, "Apparently you skipped the firecracker altogether and just used the match, kiddo. Second degree burns all up your left arm."

And he finds that he has nothing left to say.

…

He gets lectures from both of his sisters, Tatsuki, the Visored, and the rest of the people he used to know. By the time Shinji comes in and just sort of sits there, he's certain his arm has been pretty much healed.

The worst part is that Shinji really doesn't do or say anything. It's as bad as the disappointed face his mother used to give him whenever he got into trouble. The blond just sits there, leaning against the wall next to him, staring at the floor. Several minutes pass before he feels safe enough to nudge the blond with his toe. "Shinji?" he asks.

Shinji takes a moment to respond. "I thought you were finally getting better," he says. His voice is clear, unwavering, but sad.

Ashamed but unable to do anything about it, he too takes a moment. "I thought so too," he finally mutters.

"Then what happened?" the blond explodes, and, despite himself, he winces at the tone and the loudness of it. Shinji's face softens a touch, but he's still as upset as he was a second ago.

He starts shaking his head. "I don't know, I don't know what happened. Shinji, Shinji please." The plea isn't what he meant to say. Not at all. He doesn't even know what he's begging for. He feels like a five-year-old, staring in the face of an angry parent. And it's horrible, because he knows this isn't what he's ever supposed to feel towards his boyfriend, but the entire situation's been unfavorable so far, so. Why the hell not?

"Please what?" Shinji snarls, and when he doesn't have an answer, the blond scoffs. Shinji takes one more, long look at him and still he says nothing. Shinji storms from the room, slamming the door behind him hard enough that it bounces against the wall before falling back into place.

Logically, he knows it's not him that Shinji's mad at. That doesn't stop the tears.

…

His life becomes pretty miserable over the next few weeks. He has more incidents than he's ever had in a short amount of time, and sometimes- he would sooner die than admit this to anyone- sometimes he sees the looks on their faces and hears their angry voices echo through the attacks.

He's hurt, and he hates it. He hates everything that's happened to him, lately. The euphoria he'd felt has long since dissipated into the air, leaving behind a shell of who he used to be. Shinji seems more stressed then ever, and when he sees no sign of the man at night, nor in the morning, he sits on the bed and buries his head in his hands. His tears have long since long dry. Nevertheless, he sits there and he can feel his shoulders shaking. He wonders what happened.

…

My name is Kurosaki Ichigo. I am twenty-four years old. My family has been torn apart, over and over again. There is nothing left of me.

…

It's a few days later that he figures out that Shinji's been sleeping on the floor in Hiyori's room. He wants to feel some sort of grief. He wants to be sad and hurt. All he can think, however, is, how childish.

…

Turns out my hell never ended at all. I was wrong when I told myself things can get better. Things can always get worse. I know that. I knew that. This is worse.

…

He makes it through somehow. His boss never notices that something's wrong, and his performances at night are more powerful than ever. The company added Mondays and Wednesdays to his shift as well. He takes them without complaint, perhaps even gratefully. More time in front of and around people talking to him or listening to him means less time hearing his own thoughts.

He's at the point where he'd pay anything for that.

…

I want to be who I used to be. I can't turn back time.

…

He would like to say that he was strong when Shinji came to apologize. But it was the middle of the night and he's had enough. He takes the blond back with a kiss and several whispered "I love you"s.

…

And somehow, slowly, things start to get better again.

…

My name is Kurosaki Ichigo. I am twenty-five years old. It has been ten years since the war ended. I don't need this anymore.

…

A year passes.

He hasn't had an incident in nearly ten months.

He keeps going.

…

It's been a full year. No incidents. It took ten years to do it, but that's okay, he knows. But those incidents made him stronger. They are not forgotten.

...

fin.