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*
She stands in the street alone, the taste of ice on her tongue.
Behind her, the house is warm, light spilling on the dark pavement at her feet. The windows hold the shadows of her brother, Kyouraku, Urahara; Isshin has them over now more often than not. It's a demonstration of power; it's effective enough in keeping the captains and commander-general from too much meddling. But it leaves her feeling distinctly bare, open-wide. The Kurosaki house has always been a refuge for her, and now even that is changing little by little.
They have had too much of her already.
Her hands rest at her thighs, fingers plucking at the wool of her skirt. Rukia curls her toes inside her boots, glancing out into the cold cloudy sky. Shirayuki is at home now, humming in the back of her head, the warmth in her stomach. She can do nothing though for the weight on Rukia’s shoulders, the pressure at her temples.
The World of the Living used to be an escape for her, somehow; even between the Hollows and the rush and brightness of everything, she still felt more at home here than anywhere else. Now, it’s just another place to be controlled and worked-over, threads of lies webbing together in every facet of her life. She wants it to stop, to breathe, just for a moment; she doesn’t know how to ask.
There is a shifting, a thickening of the sharp air. She wets her lips, but doesn’t turn around. “Where’d you come from?” she asks after a moment.
Behind her, Ichigo grunts. “Roof.”
She tucks her fingers into the folds of her skirt, scuffing her heel against the dark pavement. “The front door too common for you now?” she drawls.
“Shut up,” he says, his feet heavy behind her. “I needed air. The idiot’s got Utitake and Kyoukaru in the kitchen getting drunk on sake.”
“Nii-sama?”
“Left. He didn’t say goodbye?”
She shrugs as he comes up flush to her side, his hands stuffed into his leather jacket, a birthday present; another birthday and moment she missed because of secrets, and lies. “I suppose not.”
Ichigo shakes his head, mouth thin. Half of his face lies in grey shadows, his hair falling across his brow; he’s letting it grow out, now, after she said once how she liked it a little longer. She is suddenly reminded of the Hollow she rarely has met, all the different souls he keeps as his own.
“Jackass,” he mutters at last.
In her ear there is a soft laugh, all amusement. Rukia rolls her eyes at the both of them, Ichigo and Shirayuki. “I expect no less. It doesn’t matter,” she says.
“It does. It all does,” he says, and suddenly they’re not talking about Byakuya any longer.
“You still want air?” she asks after a moment, glancing up at him.
Instead of answering, he grips her elbow with his hand and pulls her along as he starts to walk down the street. His hand slides down her arm, sinking into the folds of her jacket before his fingers press into hers. The touch of his skin against hers is a warm jolt; he is always edged over with power now. It skims his skin, and she can taste it in his mouth, ruby-dark and waiting.
“Your brother said some bullshit in there,” Ichigo says at last, his thumb rough against her knuckles.
“Which part?” she asks a little wearily.
“Apart from all of it – well, you know,” he mutters.
She blinks against the crisp breeze, the echo of her boots hollow against the pavement. “I’m a lieutenant,” she says at last, parsing her words carefully. His hand tightens its grip in hers. “I should go back.”
“Fuck that,” he says immediately. “After all this? Fuck it.”
“Ichigo –“
“No,” he says sharply. They turn down a dark residential street, the lamplight soft and faintly yellow in the darkness. “You were gone for over a – fuck, Rukia, why are you even trying to defend it?”
“Because I think it’s inevitable,” she retorts. “I’m always going to have to go back. Whether it’s tomorrow, or a month from now, or a year – I have to go back.”
He looks at her, cheeks reddening from the cold, and from the anger wide and hot in his gaze. “Huh,” he says at last, voice tight.
“Oh, stop,” she murmurs. “I’m not saying I want to.”
“Yeah, okay,” he shrugs, his fingers loosening around hers.
She grabs his wrist, stopping them in the middle of the road, just past the edge of a pool of lamplight. “Don’t be an asshole,” she snaps. “I don’t – Ichigo, I don’t want to leave,” she repeats, her free hand falling to his chest. Her fingertips are slick against the leather.
You’ve done it now, Shirayuki hums in her mind, all amusement.
“Then you won’t,” he says after a beat, his voice low in his chest.
“Says you?” she asks.
His hand covers hers on his chest, his head bowing towards hers. “Says me, yeah. I can say shit like that now and get away with it,” he says with a slight smirk.
She can’t help but roll her eyes, mouth softening. “Don’t get ahead of yourself.”
“I think I want to,” he says, serious again.
In her head, Shirayuki murmurs and coos. Rukia wonders what Zangestu is saying; then again, perhaps she doesn’t want to know. “What does that mean?” she asks at last. The breeze curls at her ankles, the cold sinking through her tights.
He shrugs, tapping his fingers against her knuckles. He is all sharp shadows in the darkness, cold to the touch. “It means I’m done fucking around when it comes to the important shit.”
A flush rises on her throat, crawling towards her cheeks. “How poetic,” she says at last, a strange sort of constriction in her chest.
A smile cracks his mouth at the corners. “You don’t believe me.”
“It’s your move, King,” she retorts.
His face warms, his forehead grazing hers. “I know,” he says before he tips his head forward, his mouth light and cool on hers.
She sighs silently, closing her eyes. Her hand fists in his jacket, tugging him close. His fingers find their way into her hair, grazing her jawline as he bites lazily at her mouth.
They do not go back to the house for hours, until they are sure Isshin and Kyouraku have drunk each other into a stupor and that they will be left alone. They have lives of precautions and balances now.
*
Two days later, Rukia waits on the corner of the street leading to the Kurosaki house, hands stuffed into the pockets of Ichigo’s leather jacket. She had nicked it yesterday morning before school; he hadn’t said a word, but she felt the heavy weight of his eyes on her the whole day, and smiled.
It’s a cool day again, the sun peaking weakly through the grey clouds. She shifts her weight back and forth on her heels, the quiet worrisome in her ears.
You could relax just for a moment, Shirayuki murmurs in the back of her mind, amused. He won’t let anything happen.
“Easy for him to say,” she mutters. The breeze ruffles her hair, shivers rising on the nape of her neck.
“Easy for who to say?” Ichigo asks as he strides up to her, face flushed.
“Nothing,” she murmurs as Shirayuki laughs. “You’re late.”
He shrugs, a strange animation and brightness lining his face. His hand catches at her hip, tugging the hem of the jacket. She tips her head back instinctually and he kisses her, loose and open and warm. He thrums with anticipation and power, an odd sort of happy reverberation. Considering that yesterday, her brother called once more with a veiled sort of comment straight from the commander-general about her lingering at Ichigo’s side, and had insisted on a private conversation with Ichigo afterwards, she’s more than a little flustered.
“What did you do?” she asks against his mouth.
“This is my jacket. Taking my closet and my room and my house wasn’t enough?” he drawls, slinging an arm over her shoulders and pulling her along as he walks in the opposite direction of the house.
“Seriously. What’s going on?”
“Just relax, won’t you?” he says, tucking her into his side.
She huffs, cheek pressed to the cool chest of his coat. “Is that an order?”
His mouth grazes her ear, teeth light on her skin. “Not yet,” he murmurs, and she can hear the smirk in his voice.
“I hate you,” she mutters, elbowing at his ribs.
It’s ten or so minutes before the landscape and buildings begin to register. A hard little ache settles in her chest as she watches the sky darken, strands of lights in the trees flickering on. It’s quieter here than she remembers; the sounds of children and teenagers aren’t echoing in her ears as before. But it still looks the same, golden in the light from the trees, the ice clean and flat in front of her.
“Ichigo, what –“ she starts as they walk through the open gate. The rink is practically empty, except for the few employees that lean against the skate rental counter, the concessions counter.
“Don’t ask, yet,” he says quickly, face flushed.
She wets her lips, an odd sort of nervousness settling under her skin. “Okay,” she says softly, and lets him sit her down at a table, as he goes for the skates.
They are very quiet together as he returns with the ice skates, and helps her with her pair before he puts on his. His hands are steady and firm on her ankles, skimming up towards her knees as he kneels before her. The breath hitches at her throat, but he gives her a little smile and drops his fingers to the laces, and she remembers: they have an audience. And he doesn’t share her well.
The rink is familiar. In this body, with the new strengths under her fingertips, she handles the ice with more skill. She still keeps her hands in his as they slip and move in odd little patterns and circles. The music piping through the speakers is quiet, all instrumental; guitars and piano, she thinks. Ichigo skates backwards, the flush still high on his cheeks as he twines his fingers in hers.
“We didn’t get to do this the right way, before,” he says at last as they lean against the barrier after a time.
Rukia tucks her hair behind her ears, face warm. The tingle in her fingertips, from nerves or anticipation or both, remains a sharp undercurrent. “I thought it was just fine,” she says softly.
“Still,” he says, shrugging. His hand hovers near his jacket pocket. “I’ve wanted to bring you back. I didn’t know if I’d have the chance.”
A hard lump settles at her throat. She picks at the ice with the toe of her skate, leaning heavily on the barrier. “I came back,” she says at last.
Ichigo reaches out towards her, his hand steady on her hip. His fingers pull at the hem of her jacket, inching her closer. “I didn’t think you could,” he says at last.
“Don’t tell me you’ve underestimated me too,” she says, sharper than she intended.
His fingers shift at the hem of her jacket, sliding under to the loose shift of her blouse as it sits at the waist of her skirt. “Never,” he says, somber and low. “Just – when you lose everything, you don’t hold out hope for much,” he adds with a shrug.
“Ichigo, stop,” she murmurs, toeing closer to him and leaning up to graze her lips across his jaw. His hand tightens at her waist, fingers warm through her shirt.
“No, I can’t,” he says, the curve of his mouth stubborn. “The second I stop, and I accept shit, and I let them dictate – it all goes to hell. I’m done.”
She sways uneasily on her skates, watching him carefully. “So? What now?” she asks after a moment. She has the distinct sensation of edging towards a precipice, a decision.
He curls his arm at her waist, eyes very dark in the soft light. “We skate,” he says, and pushes them off the barrier into the wide open ice.
*
It’s still light as they leave the rink. They do not turn for home.
“More surprises?” she asks even as she lets him guide her along the sidewalk, towards the center of town.
He shrugs, his finger loose in hers. “Maybe.”
“What is going on with you?” she asks, only a little put-out. When he doesn’t answer, she rolls her eyes and elbows him in the ribs. “If you wait too long to tell me, you know a Hollow, or something will ruin it.”
It’s then he smiles, a wry sort of slice across his mouth. “There are three captains here today. One of them can handle it,” he says lightly. But there is a taste of an order in it, and she is suddenly very aware of him, of all of him. When she breathes in she thinks she can taste the dark tang of his energy, listing lazily under his skin.
“Where are we going?” she asks for the third time, as he halts them on a quiet corner near the busiest section of downtown. Here, there are businesses and the taller buildings that shape the skyline, and the churches and courts.
Ichigo rakes a hand through his hair, brow furrowing. “This isn’t going to be pretty, or whatever fantasies Inoue might have poisoned your mind with. Just letting you know,” he mutters.
She stares at him, taking a deep cool breath. “What the hell are you talking about?”
His hand lingers near his coat pocket as the fingers in her grasp tighten. “There isn’t going to be any more disappearing. You aren’t going back alone anymore,” he says at last, voice very low and quiet on the wind. “We – fuck, I don’t know –“
“I need you to use words, Ichigo,” she says, more than a little amused.
He glares at her, a flash of gold deep in his dark gaze. “I’m trying –“
“Then just say it!”she exclaims, stamping her foot into the sidewalk impatiently. The streets are beginning to fill with the businessmen and the staff, the end of the workday arriving.
He drops her hand and catches her cheek with his fingers, standing too close for public. His other hand fumbles between their hips, at his pocket and hers.
“Just say yes, okay?” he murmurs.
In her hand, there’s a cool press of metal, a sharp contrast from his warm touch. “What?” she breathes, glancing down at her palm.
The ring, she thinks she knows it. From all the pictures of Masaki around the house, the large portrait always hanging over Isshin’s chair, the ring is quiet, just an afterthought to most. It’s cool thin silver, simple and lovely and bright against her skin.
“Oh,” she says after a long pause, breath catching in her chest. Her fingers curl around the ring as it sits in her palm.
“Shit,” he mutters, shaking his head. “Fucking shit.”
She kicks his shin, blinking past the hot press behind her eyes. “Shut up, Ichigo.”
“If it’s taking this long –“
“Shut up,” she snaps, shaking her head. “You’ve never done this before, how would you know how this is supposed to go?”
He shrugs, face very red. His jaw works under his skin. She can tell he wants to speak, can tell it very much; but he is restrained, pulled back, and she can’t help but smile slightly.
“What is this for?”she asks after a moment, the ring slim and light in her fingertips.
“Rukia –“
“I mean, why? Why now?” she says hurriedly.
His face sets into hard lines. The fading afternoon light shadows them both, chills curling at her knees and ankles. “You need to be here. With me,” he says after a beat, voice thick. “Or I’m going to be there, with you. This is a way to guarantee it.”
“No royal decrees?” she drawls.
His hand tightens at her waist. “No,” he says quietly. “This is for us.”
She hums softly, looking at the ring once more. His fingers slide over the jut of her hip, sinking into the leather of his borrowed jacket. “If it helps, your brother said yes,” he adds after a moment.
That catches her off-guard. She presses her lips together, color flushing at her throat. “You asked him first?”
He shrugs. “Not really. I kind of just told him how it was going to be.”
“Sometimes, you are the absolute worst,” she mutters.
“No one’s going to argue the point with me,” he says. “That’s all that matters.”
Rukia sighs, smoothing her thumb over the ring. It feels good against her skin. In the back of her mind, Shirayuki coos, calls for Zangestu. There’s a warm flush of energy between them, a returning.
“You’d do this no matter what, wouldn’t you?” she asks after a long spell of quiet, with just the bustle and breeze of the town in their ears.
His fingers close against her cheek, hand framing her face. “Idiot,” he murmurs. “Of course I would.”
Wetting her lips, she tilts her mouth up towards his, his lips warm and chapped against hers. “Okay then,” she says at last.
He smiles, wide and white into her mouth. His fingers slide into her hair as he tugs her closer. His mouth covers hers. The hand on her hip moves to her hand, sliding the ring into place.
Rukia shuts her eyes as he kisses her , and swallows the sound of her name on his tongue.
*
It’s just two days later that some of the captains stop by; Byakuya, Kyouraku and Nanao (they always come as a pair; Nanao told her once she is too afraid he won’t come back if she isn’t there to remind him how to get home), along with Urahara. They use the doorbell, in a remarkable act of personal space.
Breakfast is slowing down. Rukia sits on the kitchen counter, splitting orange slices with the tips of her fingers. Ichigo leans against the counter next to her with his coffee, his hand on her knee. When she looks in the right light, her band catches the sun and fragments the light against her skirt.
“You need one too,” she says as the captains and lieutenants stroll in, led by Isshin. “So we match.”
Ichigo grins openly. “Eh, it can wait.”
She tosses an orange slice at him, which he catches in his mouth, chews exaggeratedly.
“You’re an idiot,” she mutters.
He leans in and kisses her for a moment, the taste of juice heavy on his tongue. “Yours, though,” he teases.
Shaking her head, she looks away and elbows him in the ribs. His mouth lingers at her jaw as footsteps sound in the corridor. She can’t help the smile curving the corners of her mouth.
“So much adorable in the morning,” Kyouraku sing-songs as they enter and settle into seats at the kitchen table. Nanao, stationing herself behind him, rolls her eyes. Byakuya takes the proffered tea from Yuzu and sits silently. His gaze catches Rukia’s for a moment; she thinks there is the hint of a smile there, and she grins a little before she ducks her head, cheeks warm.
“What’s up now?” Ichigo drawls. His fingers curl into the soft skin of her knees, just at the hem of her skirt. He refuses to be shy, restrained; he always has, really.
“Rukia-san is needed,” Kyouraku says lightly, his arm a long stretch across the back of the chair. His fingers curve towards Nanao’s waist, subtle as he thinks he is. “Old Man Yama misses her.”
Ichigo snorts, his thumb drawing circles on her kneecap. “Bet he is. Who does he have to almost execute now?” he mutters.
Rukia elbows him again, straightening against the kitchen cabinets. “I’m sorry, Kyouraku-sama. I can’t return alone,” she says at last.
Kyouraku shrugs. “Your captain will come to fetch you eventually. It’s no matter to me. Could we have a little sake for the tea, Isshin?” he says gaily.
Nanao shakes her head wearily, adjusting the pencil behind her ear. “It’s not even nine in the morning, sir.”
As Isshin and Kyouraku grumble and simper, Rukia slides off the counter. “We have to go,” she murmurs as she passes Ichigo.
His hand slides at her hip before dropping away. “I’ll be there in a minute,” he says quietly, voice low. There are words to be had, a conversation in the loosest sense; he will have it alone, because it is his mantle to bear.
Rukia nods. “I’ll wait,” she says softly, and shifts past Nanao with a smile.
Cool fingers linger at her wrist as she moves into the doorway. She looks up to find Nanao there, holding onto her wrist and glancing down.
“Pretty,” is all the lieutenant says, soft and with a smile. “He has good taste.”
Slipping her wrist from Nanao’s grasp, Rukia thumbs at her ring. Secrets between friends are just that; secrets. Nanao carries her own, too. “Thank you,” she says with a smile, and moves out into the corridor.
Ichigo’s leather jacket hangs at the front door. She slips it on, and tucks her hands into the pockets. In the right pocket, she can feel the thick paper from two days ago, bearing their signatures, and a promise.
Rukia leans against the front door, shuts her eyes, and smiles.
*