A Thirsty Bloom

It was spring, and wet. The only part of the season Ichigo hated. It wasn’t really spring itself, or anything sentimental like hating new beginnings. It was just that it was always wet. When he walked through grass in his sandals in the morning, his feet got covered in dew, and it was annoying. As for walking through grass in sandals in the morning, he’d been doing a lot more of that thanks to Kisuke. Plus, everyone was always gushing about spring. They wouldn’t shut up about love being in the air, especially girls. Especially Kisuke.

It made him redden to think about, and Ichigo sighed and set down his notebook. It was his kind of season. Kisuke.

Sometimes, Urahara still scared him.

It had all hurt so much. Blood everywhere, pain, and the final defeat, humiliating, anguished tears. And then, where there was blood, there was Urahara-san. Hands and arms had so smoothly wrapped themselves around his body, and pulled him close. Tightly. The tightness had somehow calmed that horrible, tense ache in his chest, and now there was only heavy breathing and a fading timpani of pain. A calloused hand touched his face, caressed.

“I have you, Kurosaki-san.”

When he awoke the next morning, not even Ichigo could ignore the look of relief in the shopkeeper’s eyes. Such an eerily strong emotion from the man, and Ichigo’s heart squeezed. When the man had thought the redhead was asleep, a soft kiss on the cheek. When no one was looking, a barely noticeable touch upon soft orange hair. Before a battle, a sneaky, stolen kiss. Urahara said it was a joke. Everyone else thought it was funny, but Ichigo had tried to beat the man into the ground. Urahara’s lips tasted like peaches.

No one else seemed to notice the change in the man’s eyes, before battles. The difference when Yoruichi left, and when she returned. The flicker that was there when he noticed Ichigo. But it wasn’t Ichigo’s job to see things like that, and it certainly wasn’t his job to announce it. Empathy wasn’t his game. He was a teenager and clueless, according to everyone else. The worst of all was when he saw need in Urahara’s eyes. Frightening, and Ichigo looked away. Pretended not to notice. The older man surely could confide in other people, friends, or find solace in his work. Ichigo couldn’t fulfill his need, and Urahara couldn’t fill Ichigo’s. It was just how things worked.

Then one night, Ichigo snuck out from his home. Not as a Shinigami. He walked and walked, to nowhere in particular. His chest burned with frustration and loneliness and he had needed some way to escape it. It had been building and building, and his friends didn’t ease the feeling. He needed to escape it. But he didn’t know how because no one had ever told him, so he walked and prayed that his soul would find some release in the blue night.

When he saw Urahara, it was a shock that stopped him in his tracks. No hat, no cane, no sandals. Regular human clothes. Shaven. His eyes settled on Ichigo from the start, and then they were next to each other, talking. Urahara was so much taller. His eyes seemed… sad. Distant. What for? Ichigo’s brows drew together harshly in his concentration. When his hat was gone, his face was so soft, the redhead thought. Like this, he had an oddly mature…handsomeness. He didn’t realize that as he studied the man next to him, he had gone silent. But Urahara remembered youth. And he had smiled sadly and touched Ichigo’s cheek, before pressing his lips against his.

The Shinigami had jumped in shock. Who the hell did Urahara think he was?! But for this one time it seemed, Ichigo’s mouth didn’t run ahead of his actions. He stayed silent, and Urahara’s kiss… it burned. It traveled down his body like someone had punched him, only instead of pain it felt good. Urahara, Urahara, Urahara.

He couldn’t push him away. No one had said kissing felt like this. No, he had kissed Tatsuki once when he was little. It wasn’t like this, and then she’d broken his arm. Urahara’s lips moved against his, opening and kissing again. Ichigo’s heart was beating painfully, so hurtfully, and with every beat it seemed…Urahara, Urahara, Urahara.

Ichigo’s body betrayed him and trembled, but he touched the man in front of him, and kissed him back. He thought he could feel happiness burst from the shopkeeper. It felt like daylight, like coolness after desperate heat, and then he was pressed against a wall, strong arms around him. He was so much stronger than he looked. They kept kissing, and whatever reluctance Ichigo had felt disappeared. Every kiss had so much heat, it was impossible. But why was he kissing a man? Why did he feel connected to Urahara? Why did Urahara care about him?

Time had answered those questions. Coaxing, pleading, pushing from Kisuke had eventually persuaded Ichigo into openness, acceptance of the relationship and enjoyment of it. But it was times that Ichigo felt ashamed that he felt most afraid of him. When the man had taken his virginity, Ichigo had felt so worthless and ashamed, no matter how hard Urahara tried to make him feel better. The sadness in Kisuke’s eyes then had hurt. And then, the age and the distance in his eyes, when they showed, Ichigo was ashamed that he couldn’t close the gap. And the shame made him afraid. He remembered how much older Urahara was, and how many ways they weren’t alike.

And it was times like that, when Ichigo doubted himself and feared the man he almost-loved, that the softly smiling Kisuke Urahara would step into Ichigo’s room through his window.

“Kisuke,” Ichigo said hesitantly, and set down his pencil.

“That’s hardly a greeting,” he replied energetically, and sat down on Ichigo’s bed. Human clothes again, and no hat. Ichigo loved it when he went without it. There was a book tucked under his arm, along with… “For you,” Urahara said devilishly, and presented Ichigo with a white lily. The redhead looked back at him, deadpan. “Don’t look at me like that, it’s very pretty! Don’t you appreciate it?” Kisuke flapped a hand and looked sad. Ichigo laughed, and launched himself at the older man. What had he doubted again?

“I’m not a flower kind of guy, stupid,” Ichigo growled and snatched the stem from Urahara’s fingers.

“But I am,” Urahara snatched it back.

“So did you get a gift for yourself?” He tugged on the stem.

“Perhaps I did, perhaps I didn’t. You’re an ungrateful wretch,” Kisuke said arrogantly, and stood up. “I think it’s time for me to go,” Ichigo’s brows furrowed.

“Go ahead then,” he said.

“…”

“Go on, shoo,” Ichigo said, and made the motion with his hand.

“…”

“…”

“…Kurosaki-saaaan,” Urahara whined.

“Hey! Don’t call me that, or I’ll stop calling you Kisuke again!” Ichigo threatened. Urahara pouted for a moment, before sighing and sitting down next to Ichigo. The shopkeeper set aside his book and the lily, and promptly took the redhead’s face in his hands and kissed him thoroughly. It was a whirlwind; Ichigo had never been able to recall just how Kisuke always got his clothes off so quickly, but there they were on the floor in a pile, and his lover was above him kissing and suckling on his nipple, making Ichigo blush.

His whole body felt thoroughly flushed with heat and awareness. Urahara in front of him was like an Adonis, so much more muscled and beautiful than his usual clothing exposed. Ichigo stared at his erection longingly, wondering that he ever managed to find himself attracted to ...that. But he was, and for Urahara, all of his hang-ups about touching and pushing further seemed to disappear. His hand wrapped him and rubbed, making Urahara hum deeply in pleasure. One of Kisuke’s hands buried itself in wild orange hair while the other rubbed Ichigo’s thigh. He slowly moved down with his mouth until he reached Ichigo’s boxers, and with speedy grace they were pulled down and Urahara was sucking him, teasing him.

Ichigo groaned and buried his hands in Kisuke’s blonde hair. Nothing was as heavenly as when Kisuke took him in his mouth. He was simply an expert. He made Ichigo want to cry out, to writhe and cum without any waiting and, damn the man, Urahara knew that and would never take him in his mouth for long. It felt so fucking good.

But the wet heat withdrew, and Ichigo looked at his lover with longing. But Urahara didn’t have any pity, only satisfaction. He took out the lube he brought with him, always strawberry scented, and as always Ichigo always rolled his eyes. But he didn’t take his time to complain, because they both needed what had driven them to this point.

So fast, and Kisuke was inside panting and whispering how sexy and beautiful his strawberry was, how hot and perfect it was being inside him. And Ichigo was speared with that fucking heat that only Urahara could give him, god it felt good. It always started slow, loving, that was the way Kisuke was. But they would get to a certain point and Ichigo would beg, growl, demand, that he go faster, harder, make it hurt. And then Kisuke’s silliness would disappear, and his eyes would be serious, and he would become harsh, forceful, taking what Ichigo would give.

Kisuke was so damn good. Ichigo couldn’t stop coming. He moaned and gripped at his bed as Urahara grunted and thrust inside him one more time before coming, and it was so…

“…Kisuke,” Ichigo breathed. Urahara rested on his forearms and looked down at Ichigo with a tired smile. After sex, the man looked unquestionably adorable. Sweaty, tangled blonde hair and slightly sheepish eyes, combined with that hint of joy.

“Happy, my flower?” He whispered jokingly.

“I bet you didn’t even plan on having sex tonight…” Ichigo said quietly, almost accusing.

“I’ll just… have to talk to you t-t-tomorrow,” Kisuke said with a yawn and lay down next to his lover, eyes closed. It never failed, Ichigo thought with a sigh. No matter what, after sex, Kisuke was out like a light. A heavy, smashed light. He heard a snrk and shook his head. Snoring.

What had the man wanted to talk about, Ichigo wondered. The flower was silliness, but Kisuke’s oddness occasionally had meaning to it. He reached down beside his bed and picked up the book Urahara had brought with him. It looked very old, and Ichigo could feel the remnants of reiatsu on the cover, as though Kisuke had locked it with his own energy. He opened it with care.

A knot formed in his throat, and his heart squeezed. Pictures. A baby Kisuke. Toddler Kisuke, playing with Yoruichi. Kisuke destroying things alone, destroying things with Yoruichi. Parents. Other children in Soul Society, Kisuke in the academy. Ichigo closed the book. Urahara had come to show him his past. There wouldn’t be anything more to be afraid of.

Ichigo set the book carefully back down on the floor, and lay down next to Urahara, who was stretched out and snoring. The redhead leaned in close and rested his head in the crook of Keisuke’s neck, and spoke. It was so quiet he himself could barely hear it over the sound of his heart. He barely let his mouth form the words.

“…I love you.” Forbidden words for anyone in the war. Forbidden words for Ichigo. He waited, and closed his eyes. Kisuke needn’t know. But the body next to him shifted, and Kisuke’s warm lips pressed against his, and then pulled away. His soft smile, his adoring gaze.

“I love you, Ichigo.”




~AN~
Psssst, I have a livejournal now. UN fishingforboots. New stories will be posted there first with the exception of Angry at the World. Byebye!