Disclaimer: No, Bleach does not belong to me; more's the pity. Love the UraIchi pairing; my first time writing it. Tell me what you think; I apologize for any errors; I had a lot of confusion trying to work out the tenses. Warning: Vaizard!Urahara; pet theory of mine I've been waiting to see for a long time.
All Night's Dreaming
Reistsu imbalance, he' heard dimly through flayed ears as he writhed uncontrollably on the cool tantami mats, skittish hands darting over his sweating frame in feeble attempts to keep him still. Hollow; he'd heard the word whispered in fearful tones, felt it strike a faint note of recognition. He screamed then, at the endless chatter puncturing the faint desperate barriers he'd erected against the fire seething in his veins.
He didn't remember what happened. There was a faint recollection of battle, of pain and puzzled nausea vanishing beneath the sudden upsurge of unbelievable hunger. Then there was only now, an eternal moment of racking agony as he twisted convulsively against a bamboo floor. He screwed his eyes shut, hands clenched tightly into fists as he fought with all his might against the intruder in the depths of his mind. No hollow here; no pale-faced demon rising from a world of glass and steel to taunt him with his weakness. He'd long since beaten that intruder, taking the other's power and making it his own, fusing the two separate parts of his soul into a single cohesive entity.
No. It was his hunger ringing in his veins, catching in his throat as he shivered uncontrollably, frame unable to bear his weight. His appetite, made doubly horrible from the knowledge that it originated within his own soul. His insanity, rising in response to a world that was suddenly unbearably twisted; urges he refused to satisfy wracking his being with depthless hunger.
He snarled weakly at the grainy taste of the others' concern. An unfamiliar sense, yet instinctive to this new being; the faint sense of worry and desperation overlaid with the dim taint of fear. It tasted, he noted absently, like fresh fog and morning wind, like the dusty drawers in empty hallways and slightly unripe oranges. The flavors were addictive; he forgot his pain for a moment, caught up in exploration of the new sensations that taunted him with faint comprehension. There was more; he knew that on a level beyond words, so much more - an infinity of hot rich fear trimmed with curdled rage – and beyond them all, the ultimate subtleties of the constellations of the soul – No!
And Urahara was suddenly there, his cool hand on Ichigo's cheek a touchstone against the brewing madness lunging through his being. The touch was clinical, assessing, yet somehow abstractly gentle, slicing through the ragged mess of his mind and leaving jagged tracks of purpose. Some measure of rationality returned at the faint pressure of the other man's fingers and Ichigo glanced upwards, black-stained sclera meeting shadowed steel. He froze, feeling his breath catch in his throat, unable to look away as the world contracted to the space of those calm grey orbs.
The writhing maelstrom resurged abruptly with devastating force and he cried out, pain shattering the entrancement of those storm-tossed eyes and making him double over in agonized suffering. The others swarmed closer, the garbled mewls of their concern making him snarl in frustration as he clutched onto his self-control with what was left of his rapidly failing will. He curled in on himself, groaning slightly at the barrage of their worried voices, clamping his teeth shut and refusing to give into the inhuman hunger shuddering through his being, scrambling desperately for something – anything – to hold onto in the midst of his raging turmoil.
Urahara's voice sliced through the tumult; Ichigo almost whimpered in relief at the quiet his words left in its wake. Resting his cheek against the polished wooden floor, he savored the absence of sound; the shopkeeper's voice was crisp and clear, effortlessly silencing the pitiful nonsense sprouted by the others. He was unable to comprehend the meaning behind the words, far too preoccupied with the blissful absence of pain; through the respite was momentary at best, it was still exceedingly welcome. He was vaguely startled when he was picked up bodily by the shopkeeper, two surprisingly strong arms cradling him close as he was carried away from the (tasty) presences he recognized as his friends. Ichigo didn't care what it looked like; he buried his head in the other man's shoulder as he felt the emptiness stir, fingers white as he clung to that calm, gentle voice whispering soft promises (reassurances) in his ear.
I know what you need, Ichigo. He shivered as the vibrations flowed over his ear, tasting the resolve within the words with fledgling senses. Something in him responded instinctively to that voice; he had no choice but to believe the other, trapped in a suffocating agony of hope.
Then there was sun and sand and blazing heat and they must have been in the training grounds beneath the shop but none of it mattered anymore. The maelstrom within him blazed as bright as the faux sun in the sky above, a burning whirlwind of hate and hunger and polished scraps of bone shredding his being with primal need. Ichigo was dimly grateful for the distance Urahara had placed between them and the (food) others; the teen shuddered convulsively as the thought was drowned beneath a screaming tide of inhuman instinct. Calloused hands set him down on the packed ground; he looked upward helplessly, feeling his eyes burn gold and black as the hunger twisted and sharpened, focusing on the lone figure of the other.
Urahara had abandoned his trademark grin; his hands were loose and ready at his sides and he watched the younger man with the utmost solemnity. The shopkeeper's absurd hat was nowhere in evidence and his eyes were plainly visible, tainted with an indecipherable emotion as he watched Ichigo cling stubbornly to the last faint vestiges of sanity. The ex-shinigami nodded slightly at the younger man, lips crinkling in a soft smile coupled to infinitely gentle grey eyes.
It's all right, Kurosaki-kun. Let go.
Ichigo felt the last frayed remnants of his control snap at those soft, soothing words, felt his face contort into a frustrated scream of pure need as he heaved himself upright. Zangetsu materialized in his hands as he darted forwards, feeling rationality and civilization dissolve beneath the burning surge of violent frenzy and endless hunger. It was the ache within his guts that made him take aim at the other man; the emptiness that lingered in his soul crying for something – anything – to make the pain vanish. A hunger beyond comprehension had seized control of his body, made doubly horrible by the inescapable knowledge of its origins from within the depths of his soul. He was helpless to resist the sudden urgings of his appetite even as the dim remainder of his self screamed in protest. The substitute shinigami howled denial even as he swung the massive blade, feeling his forearms strain as he lunged with every ounce of his strength.
Urahara merely looked at him, that same maddening expression of utter calm gracing his features as he watched the changing man. Benehime was suddenly there, a graceful arch of steel humming with unholy bloodlust straining against Zangetsu's shadowed curve. Ichigo looked up, across the sweep of their locked blades
and saw Kisuke's eyes bleed gold.
OOO
They'd fought.
Battle was too mild a word for the furious destruction they'd dealt unto each other. Rocks had shattered beneath the sheer force of their power as unleashed energies snarled and collided. Benehime sang a song of crimson delight and Zangetsu rose to meet her, the crescent blade blazing dark and terrible as surging waves of blood and shadow wrenched the air asunder. Two sets of inhuman gold-on-black eyes met in a frenzy of long-repressed hunger, alien cravings flaring in deadly promise as they clashed. Two predators, perfectly matched, grappling with all their will and all their power their as they tore the sky in two.
Ichigo had felt the laughter burbling out of his soul, clear and brilliant, found it matched by an equally merry chuckle from the former shinigami.
They'd fought and blazed and bled until their zanpakto shivered in weary arms, panting for breath as they eyed the other warily. Urahara was cautious in his approach but no less ruthless, shattered glints of long-dormant savagery shining brilliantly in his eyes. Ichigo, in turn, felt his madness burnished into a single overwhelming desire rising from within his soul, matching his shopkeeper's wild grin with an equally feral smile. They'd paused only for a moment, knuckles white against the hilts of their respective swords before their heartbeats beckoned them to battle, dancing and twirling in a whirl of steel and flame. Neither was able to comprehend or acknowledge the concept of surrender; neither yielded an inch to their opponent as they clashed and parried and twisted from the oncoming blows. Black moon and red crescent twined in violent rapture, shattering the landscape to shards as they met in a fiery cataclysm of elemental force.
They fought until their swords dropped from trembling fingers; the promise of blood and the memory of hunger drove them forward as they lunged at each other in a whirl of fists and teeth. Ichigo had felt faint echoes of claws catch in the other man's flesh; his head flew backwards, fangs snapping wildly as he bit back a hiss of pain from the devastating force of the other's blows. He'd laughed at the sensation, feeling the stranglehold of his inhuman need transmuted into a sharper, more definite urge, seen the same violence glisten in the eyes of his fellow predator. They'd fought and snarled and snapped at each other, caught in the ethereal beauty of their violence as they whirled in a dance of blood and pain and promise.
They'd fought until their muscles were spent with weariness, until they could fight no more.
OOO
Ichigo tilted his head back, feeling the sun on his half-open eyes. Behind him, he could feel Urahara – no, Kisuke now, the fight had given him that much – shift minutely, ragged cloak and torn clothing wrapping softly about his shoulders as the shopkeeper held him close.
He felt – empty. Dare he say – his lips quirked softly– hollow, even. Purged, somehow, from the desire that had caught him in a devastating spiral of hate and violence, his hunger sated – if not quite in the manner he'd imagined. He was empty, filled with a soft, drifting calm that held him bound in an eternal moment of gentle peace. He'd been given what he hadn't even known he needed; felt the madness gnawing on the edges of his perception deftly tamed by two skilled hands.
Ichigo shifted slightly, feeling Kisuke's gaze sharpen in response. He was situated between the shopkeeper's bent legs, sitting with his back to the other's broad chest as the two of them watched the sunrise. A fake sun, true; a facsimile of a dawn – but a sun rise nonetheless. Absurdly comfortable, he impulsively leaned backwards, feeling the steady rhythm of the other man's chest beneath his cheek.
Neither of them spoke, a fact for which the teen was absurdly grateful. The exertion of the past hours had long since sated his newly-won, previously incomprehensible instincts; he was content now to simply breathe and think and be. Urahara had shown him how to indulge in his darker side without degenerating into madness, navigating the byways of bloodlust and carnage with an ease indicative of long practice. The teen could feel the distant stirrings of curiosity, but the urge was faint and detached, dismissed as unimportant in the face of the easy silence binding the two together.
Ichigo squeezed his eyes shut, feeling his fists clench convulsively in the fabric of the other man's haori as he admitted the truth to himself– he was pathetically grateful for the other's presence. There was someone else who understood exactly what he thought and felt; who understood the hunger locked into the matrices of his mind, the savagery embedded now into the very fabric of his being. He wasn't alone. He didn't care much for the how or why – the questions were there, but irrelevant in the face of the simple fact that he wasn't alone.
Slowly, tentatively, Urahara – no, Kisuke's – hand came up, settling gently into his hair. The touch was feather-light; he could taste the hesitant concern as the former shinigami wordlessly offered whatever comfort he could give.
Ichigo turned his head, feeling the hand slip from his hair to deftly trace the curve of his cheek with the slightest brush of surprisingly soft fingertips.
Kisuke was utterly still, silently waiting.
Ichigo sighed, and tucked his head into the other man's chest. He closed his eyes, listening to the steady rhythm of the other's heart.