Chapter Text
Kisuke wakes up warm and alone, curled up under a leopard-patterned comforter ( what the fuck, Ichigo? ) with his face pressed into a hot pink pillow that smells like blueberry shampoo and sweat. There is no moment of realization, no whisper of shame or guilt or terror, just the solid, plain fact: he fucked Kurosaki Ichigo, and damn, was it good.
The smell of waffles wafts into the room. Right, breakfast. Ichigo didn’t want any talk of mistakes until after they’d both eaten, Kisuke remembers this, vaguely.
He finds his pants are torn in two when he decides to go looking for them, so he settles on his briefs and a silky, floral robe he spots hanging over the edge of the bed.
Ichigo is dressed only in the jeans from last night when he finally pads into the kitchen, mixing bowl balanced on his hip as he ladles batter into the waffle maker.
“Morning, Kisuke,” he says, smiling at him over his shoulder. “C’mon— there’s plates in the cupboard over the sink.”
Nodding, Kisuke moves to set the table. None of the plates match, but the designs are fun— one square checkered, one shaped like a sunflower. The forks he grabs from the dish rack, noting almost absently that they all appear to be made of real silver.
Ichigo flops two waffles onto the sunflower plate in front of Kisuke.
“I tend to eat Western, nowadays,” he says, taking the seat opposite before spearing two more waffles and dropping them onto his own plate. “Hope you don’t mind.”
“Not at all,” Kisuke says, reaching for one of the jam jars Ichigo already has laid out. “I like Western food.”
Ichigo smiles at him.
“It’s sweet, and it’s heavy,” he says. “I’m always hungry, nowadays— American portions are the only thing that do it for me.”
“Now, Ichigo, that’s rude,” Kisuke says. “What if an American hears you?”
The teen chuckles.
“I don’t think Americans would be offended,” he says, reaching for the whipper cream can. “After all, don’t they call their country ‘the land of plenty?’”
Kisuke shakes his head, glancing at the jar. It’s homemade, with a small sticker reading ‘mango’ in neat print.
“You make your own jam?”
“I’ve got a lot of free time,” Ichigo says, shrugging. “Especially now that school’s over.”
“Yes, I suppose so,” Kisuke agrees. “Rumor has it you’re not going to university?”
“That’s true.”
“So what are you planning to do?”
Ichigo shrugs, spooning raspberry jam onto his waffle.
“Travel,” he says. “Relax. Enjoy myself for a little bit. I’ve got all the time in the world to go to school, if I want to go later— besides, I learn better on my own.”
“Based on your skill in linguistics, I find it hard to disagree,” Kisuke says, smiling slightly. “How many languages is it you speak?”
“... Some fifteen, I think?” Ichigo says after a moment. “I can read a few ancient languages, but speaking’s a bit iffy, considering.”
“A polyglot in the making,” Kisuke says.
“Is that the word for it?” Ichigo shrugs. “I was bored, is all. There’s no real point to learning— just personal interest, you know?”
“There’s something to be said for personal interest,” Kisuke says. “Half of the Gotei’s technological advances are thanks to the changes made in the twelfth by yours truly.”
“So modest,” Ichigo says wryly.
Kisuke offers him a mocking bow, twirling his hand for effect.
“Life is hard for men as humble as I,” he says, and Ichigo laughs. He laughs a lot, it seems.
“I suppose it must be,” Ichigo says. “So, three days ‘til shinigami?”
Kisuke sombers.
“Two days, now,” he says. “But yes.”
“And they’ll be watching me for the day,” Ichigo muses, popping a piece of waffle into his mouth. “... I’ll admit, I’m torn between fucking with them and… yeah.”
“The urge is strong,” Kisuke agrees. “But you must do your very best to stomp on that feeling. On the whole, shinigami don’t appreciate a sense of humor.”
Ichigo sighs in mock disappointment.
“No orgies, then?”
“Preferably no— unless, of course, you want to deal with Kyouraku-taicho’s offer to join in.”
“Of course he’s invited,” Ichigo says. “He’s quite handsome, you know.”
Kisuke arches an eyebrow.
“You have changed,” he says.
“‘He who loves, flies, runs, and rejoices; he is free and nothing holds him back,’” Ichigo says. “My problem has always been loving too much, Kisuke. That’s why I kick ass.”
“And there’s the teenager,” Kisuke says wryly. “You had me worried for a second.”
Ichigo smiles. It’s not a particularly happy smile, this time.
“I’m far from a teenager, Kisuke,” he says, and the words hold a weight that is uncomfortably familiar. “But it’s nice of you to say, I suppose.”
Kisuke looks down at his breakfast.
“What we put you through— what I put you through— was more than any child ought to live through,” he says to his waffles. “And you were a child, Ichigo, no matter how mature you seemed.”
There’s a long pause. Kisuke’s almost afraid to look up.
“I thought I said we’d wait until after breakfast to discuss bad decisions.”
Kisuke looks up. Ichigo’s just looking at him, expression soft. There’s a smear of cream in the corner of his mouth, and his hair hangs damp and flat from a shower that Kisuke must have missed.
“You’re right, of course,” Ichigo says. “I was a child. I was too young. But I was your best bet too, I think— I must have been. I mean, besides being a genetic mutant, I could have turned out completely uncontrollable. I could have switched sides. I could have decided to mind my own business and let you all die. If you had a better option than an emotionally repressed fifteen-year-old with mommy issues, you would have gone with it.” Ichigo leans back, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand. “At the same time, if you did have a better option, you wouldn’t have met me, and then you wouldn’t have had Rush playing in the background after a late night of truly fantastic sex.”
Kisuke can’t help it— he laughs.
“It was pretty good,” he admits. “Though I’m having some mixed feelings on the subjects.”
Ichigo flaps a hand.
“Don’t worry about my age or my father,” Ichigo says. “In two days, I’ll be able to kick his ass into another dimension if he tries anything, so just try and keep it to yourself ‘til then, okay?”
Kisuke winces. He actually hadn’t thought about Isshin until that moment, a touch too preoccupied with things like ‘teenager’ and ‘alive’ and ‘technically the product of a poorly-handled experiment’.
“... He’s going to put my head on a pike,” he says.
“Not if he doesn’t find out,” Ichigo says. “Isshin might be more observant than he lets on, but I’m far better at keeping secrets than even you know, Kisuke.”
“I think I’m starting to figure that out.”
Ichigo’s smile widens.
“I don’t doubt that,” he says. “But I think I ought to warn you— you’re nowhere near knowing everything there is to know about me, Kisuke.”
Something about that statement— besides the fact that it’s irrevocably true— makes Kisuke go warm all over. He has the sudden, overpowering urge to kiss the man across the table, and why wouldn’t he? Ichigo said it himself— Kisuke doesn’t know everything about him. Hell, considering last night, Kisuke hazards a guess that he’s closer to knowing nothing at all.
The very concept of a secret has always done odd things to Kisuke. Maybe that’s Yoruichi’s doing— she’s always had a way of adding sex to their combined passion for ferreting out the things no one wanted them knowing— but either way, he’s stuck with these feelings now, and judging by Ichigo’s smug expression, he knows exactly the thoughts that are going through Kisuke’s head.
“You’re so weird, Kisuke,” Ichigo says, pushing himself out of his chair and circling the table. “C’mere.”
Ichigo wraps an arm around Kisuke’s shoulders, leaning down slightly so he can press a kiss to his mouth. Kisuke accepts it without question, leaning back to give him a better angle. Nervousness slides down his spine in cold, sharp pricks, making him shiver. Ichigo is warm, and heavy, and sort of maybe has pieces of waffle stuck in his teeth.
Cute.
“I hope you’re not planning on doing anything today,” Ichigo says, pulling back. “Because I’ll be honest, Kisuke— I’m not letting you go anywhere.”
“Oh, good,” Kisuke says, a little dazed. “Because I don’t think I planned on going very far in this state.”
“Perfect,” Ichigo says. “Let’s call it a day. The doors are locked, the radio’s on, and I may or may not have a couple of weed cookies waiting for us in my room.”
“Never had a weed cookie.”
“Never? You’ll love it. They’re great for post-coital snacks.”
Kisuke grins, lifting Ichigo up into his arms just because he can and starting for the bedroom.
“I think this could turn out to be a very interesting partnership,” he says as Ichigo kisses him again.
“‘Course it will,” Ichigo says. “I’m hot, you’re hot, and I’ve got rope under my bed.”
Kisuke feels his face go hot.
Ichigo’s going to be the death of him.