Chapter Text
Another flash.
Another click.
And Ichigo snapped.
In an instant, he was gone from the Jell-O pool—leaving behind only a violent splash. Before anyone could react, he was right there in front of the hooded figure, fist cocked back.
His punch connected hard, sending the figure flying across the basement. The person crashed into a stack of ceremonial Quincy nonsense—sending candles, random decorative forks, and a giant framed picture of a pigeon tumbling to the floor.
Orihime shrieked, her hands covering her mouth.
The hood of the downed figure slipped away and Ichigo’s entire face twitched.
“YOU?!”
It was Jinta, holding his now bleeding nose, slowly turned his head toward Ichigo with a grim, dark expression. “...You hit me.”
Ichigo clenched his fists. “Why the hell are you here?!”
Jinta sniffed, wiping his bloody nose with the back of his sleeve. “I was doing my job.”
Ichigo barked out a laugh, absolutely livid. “Your JOB?! Oh yeah? And what the hell does that job involve, huh?!”
Jinta held up the damn phone. “Photography.”
“GIVE ME THAT, BRAT!”
“NO, YOU BAKA, ICHIGO!” he yelled back, scrambling toward the door. “I WON’T GIVE YOU ANYTHING!”
The bastard shot out of the basement like a bat out of hell, dodging Ichigo’s grasp with the reflexes of a man who knew he was about to get his ass kicked. Ichigo didn’t even think—he lunged after him, grabbing Orihime on instinct and dragging her along because there was no way in hell he was leaving her alone for even one damn second anymore.
Orihime let out a delighted, “Wheee!”
“AND SO THE CHASE BEGINS!” Kanonji declared, striking a heroic pose.
“Shut the hell up!” Ichigo’s voice echoed from the hall.
Jinta ran upstairs like his life depended on it and Ichigo followed, because it did.
Because those photos? Of Orihime? In that translucent Quincy outfit?
There was no way he was letting them exist.
“GET BACK HERE, YOU LITTLE SHIT!”
Jinta cackled as he parkoured over an expensive Ishida family coffee table. “Too slow, OLD MAN!”
Ichigo hurdled the table so violently that it snapped in half behind him.
“WHAT DID YOU JUST CALL ME?!”
“I SAID GRANDPA ICHIGO!”
Ichigo knocked over what was probably a priceless Quincy heirloom statue in his blind rage and the statue shattered into approximately four million pieces.
“Whoops,” Orihime chirped.
The chase wrecked the Ishida household.
Bookshelves collapsed. Tables flipped. A fish tank tipped over, sending an army of rare, exotic fish flopping across the marble floor.
“Ichigo-kun! The fish are—”
“NOT NOW, ORIHIME.”
They barreled through the halls, knocking down coat racks, breaking doors, and absolutely obliterating any sense of peace that once existed in this house.
Jinta, surprisingly agile for a punk kid, vaulted over the dining table, sending chairs flying. Ichigo, not to be outdone, flipped the entire table over in pursuit.
“DAMN IT, JINTA—”
“You’re never getting this phone, ICHIGO-OSSAN!”
“I WILL TEAR YOUR LIMBS OFF!”
“I’D LIKE TO SEE YOU TRY!”
They burst into the kitchen and they both abruptly stopped, looking at the countertop.
There, sitting pristinely, untouched by the carnage was a gorgeous, towering, pure-white cake. It was decorated with intricate sugar flowers, delicate gold trim, and an elegant Quincy symbol made out of dark chocolate on top.
The three of them stared at it for a moment silently. Jinta wiped his bloody nose. Ichigo panted heavily, his hands still clenched into fists. Orihime’s eyes sparkled at the masterpiece of a cake before them.
Another door swung open dramatically and Ryuuken strode in, followed by—
“YOHOOOOOOOO!!!”
—Don Kanonji.
Ryuuken was still wearing that hideous Quincy-themed apron and it really should have been ridiculous. It should have made him look stupid.
And yet, since it was Ryuuken Ishida—it didn’t. Instead, he just looked irritatingly competent, the kind of man who could wear literal garbage and still somehow pull it off. He adjusted his glasses and looked at them all with supreme indifference.
Jinta, holding his nose, squinted. “Why does he still look hot?”
Ichigo snapped. “Why the fuck would you say that out loud?”
Ryuuken ignored them, sweeping a judgmental gaze across the absolute wreckage of his household—broken furniture, Jell-O residue, a shattered chandelier no one wanted to talk about—and sighed like a disappointed surgeon who had just lost a patient because the nurses were juggling scalpels.
“The cake,” he said flatly, “is for you.”
Ichigo stared at him. Then at the cake. Then back at him.
“I’m sorry, what?”
“To celebrate the successful completion of the Quincy bonding ceremony,” Ryuuken continued, adjusting his glasses. “Now, nothing stands in the way of the unification of Kurosaki Ichigo and Inoue Orihime. You are spiritually bound to one another. The ritual is complete.”
Ichigo turned to Orihime. Orihime waved happily.
Ichigo turned back to Ryuuken. “You’re out of your goddamn mind.”
Jinta scoffed. “Successful? I got punched in the face.”
Ryuuken didn’t even blink. “There is now nothing stopping you from fully committing to your relationship, Kurosaki. No excuses. No obstacles. No running away.”
Ichigo crossed his arms. “Who said I was running away?”
Ryuuken raised a brow. “Oh? Then you have no issues proposing properly, right now, in front of everyone?”
Silence.
Horrible, painful, silence as Ichigo felt his soul leave his body.
Orihime blinked, tilting her head. “To... propose?”
Urahara, who had appeared from a goddamn cupboard, froze mid-action, holding a set of silverware like he had just overheard the juiciest piece of gossip of his life.
Don Kanonji, in the middle of striking an unnecessary pose, halted.
Jinta was grinning.
Ichigo couldn't do anything or answer, so, naturally, he did the only thing his fried brain could think of.
He grabbed a plate and pressed it into his own face, trying to hide, wanting the earth under his feet to open up an swallow him alive.
“I—I SAID NOTHING. SHUT UP.”
Ryuuken massaged his temples. “Good grief.”
But Urahara, grinning like the menace he was, casually set the silverware down. “Well, whatever Kurosaki-san definitely didn’t just say, we should still enjoy this exquisite masterpiece!”
Don Kanonji sprang into action, wielding a cake slicer. “YES! A GLORIOUS FEAST FOR A GLORIOUS UNION!!!”
Ichigo groaned into his plate.
Orihime clapped her hands. “Yay! Cake!”
Jinta grumbled but grabbed a fork anyway.
And so, after a day of unspeakable Quincy nonsense, Jell-O-related trauma, a helicopter landing that had definitely been illegal, and an entire household destroyed—
They sat down.
And ate the goddamn cake.
But just as Ichigo had gotten his plate of cake handed to him, his instincts flared. From the corner of his eye, he saw it.
Jinta was trying to sneak away. The little brat was trying to slip out while everyone was distracted with the cake.
Oh, hell no.
Ichigo slammed his plate down, stood up so fast his chair toppled, and was about to lunge.
But the air split open.
Not metaphorically.
Literally.
With a screeching RIIIIIP, a Senkaimon materialized right in the middle of the Ishida household, because of course it had.
As the sliding doors creaked apart, Ichigo barely had time to mutter, “Oh, you gotta be kidding me—” before Zaraki Kenpachi stomped into the room with Yachiru bouncing cheerfully at his side.
For a moment, the room fell into a tense, expectant silence and even Ryuuken looked vaguely irritated.
Orihime, in contrast, happily licked some frosting off her finger.
Kenpachi took a slow look around the room, his gaze sweeping over the Jell-O, the fancy cake, Ichigo standing next to Orihime in her deeply questionable Quincy dress, and Ryuuken wearing a hideous apron.
“I heard you’re getting married.”
Ichigo choked on air.
Kenpachi squinted at him. “Didn’t invite me.”
Orihime blinked. “Wait, wha—”
Kenpachi took another slow, suspicious glance around the room, as if trying to confirm his own conspiracy theory.
Then, with absolute certainty, he nodded.
“Yeah,” he muttered. “This is definitely not a wedding.”
Ichigo opened his mouth, but before he could, Yachiru suddenly sprang forward.
“Dumby Zaraki!!” she scolded, landing next to Orihime. “Don’tcha see?! The cake?! Boobie-chan’s fancy dress?! This IS a wedding!!”
Ichigo looked at Orihime.
Then at the suspiciously elaborate cake.
Then at himself, still damp from the stupid Jell-O ritual.
He turned back to Kenpachi, who was now staring at him like he had committed an unforgivable crime.
And then, in the worst possible moment, Urahara very cheerfully cut a slice of cake and handed it to Kenpachi like he was catering the reception.
Kenpachi looked at the cake.
Back at Ichigo.
Then back at the cake.
A long, terrible silence.
“OI, WHAT THE HELL, KUROSAKI?!” Kenpachi bellowed, making the entire room rattle. “I’M NOT A WORTHY GUEST?! IS THAT IT?!”
Ichigo groaned. “There’s no freaking—”
“NO WEDDING, HUH?” Kenpachi pointed his giant sword at the cake. “THEN WHAT’S THIS? A BIRTHDAY PARTY?!”
Yachiru gasped. “Wait!! It’s Ichigo’s birthday?!”
“It’s not my damn—”
Kenpachi turned back to Ichigo. “SO WHAT YOU’RE SAYING IS, NOT ONLY DID YOU NOT INVITE ME TO YOUR WEDDING—”
“There is no—”
“—BUT YOU ALSO DIDN’T INVITE ME TO YOUR BIRTHDAY PARTY?!”
Ichigo could feel his last brain cell packing its bags and leaving.
There were many ways to die. He had faced hollows, Aizen, even Yhwach. But he never thought his cause of death would be Kenpachi deciding that not inviting him to an imaginary wedding/birthday party was a crime punishable by death.
“Oi, Kenpachi, think for two seconds—”
“NAH, TOO LATE!!” Kenpachi cracked his neck, rolling his shoulders. “IF I’M NOT A GUEST, THEN I’M CRASHING THIS SHIT!!”
And with that, he lunged.
Ichigo barely had time to scream internally before his instincts kicked in and he dodged, just as Kenpachi’s blade obliterated the countertop where the cake had been.
Ichigo landed, furious. “Oi, you psycho, put the damn sword—”
Kenpachi swung again. Ichigo ducked, and the blade went straight through the kitchen wall, leaving a hole the size of a car.
“That’s not—!!” Ichigo dodged again, barely missing another attack that took out the fridge.
Jinta was suddenly there again, holding the phone. “Hell yeah! Keep fighting!”
Yachiru hopped onto Orihime’s shoulder, swinging her legs. “See?! I told you it was a wedding! Ken-chan’s doing the first dance!”