Chapter Text
Kurosaki Ichigo has always found peace in the mountains.
Sometimes he thinks it’s just part of the whole writer mystique, sometimes he gets overwhelmed just trying to go to the store and thinks he’s just built wrong.
Either option leads to him spending the last few weeks of fall planning to hike out to a cabin tucked away in the mountains outside of Karakura owned by Urahara Kisuke, an old friend of his dad’s. He’s ostensibly trading the use of the place for getting it winter ready in between working on his newest novel, so he makes a careful list, packs his supplies, reassures his family he’ll be fine and heads out when the leaves turn. He’s made this trip dozens of times over the years, but Yuzu gets worked up about it every time.
Ichigo thinks it’s partially because she’s just a natural-born worrier, and partially because she reads too many dang ghost stories. Apparently the mountains are host to all kinds of spirits and creatures and god knows what else. Personally, Ichigo’s spend enough time volunteering with Renji on the Karakura Mountain Rescue team that he thinks most of these stories don’t take into account either how dangerous nature really is, or just how stupid people can be.
There is a certain air of mystery and suspense to them, to be fair. Towering peaks that stay ice-bound even in high summer, changing colors with the seasons and hiding mirror-still lakes and icy rivers in the valleys and hills, they certainly evoke the feeling of a world outside of time, quiet and resentful of human interlopers.
Ichigo loves them for their silence and distance from the frenzied crush of the city. Here the air is crisp, and smells damp and cool. Every time he steps out of his car onto the gravel and dirt path up to the cabin, he feels something inside his chest unspool, like he can finally breathe again. He’s taken all the precautions needed - he has emergency supplies tucked in the trunk, and he’s let people know where he’s going and how long he’s expected to be gone. The cabin isn’t that far of a hike from the flattened dirt patch where Ichigo’s car is holed up to spend a month or so keeping company with the old weather-beaten jeep Urahara always swears he’s going to get around to fixing up one of these days. Ichigo’s not holding his breath on that one.
The cabin is still and dark under a coating of orange and brown leaves, the faded old curtains pulled neatly in front of the windows. Ichigo does his usual first arrival check; circles around to make sure the windows are all in one piece, the roof is still sound, and there’s no obvious holes or cracks where critters could have worked their way in. Getting a rabies shot from his dad after a surprise raccoon is an experience he’d like to keep to “once in a lifetime.”
“Okay.” He says, just to hear his own voice. It’s the only one he’ll likely hear for a while. “Guess we’re all good so far.” He takes it carefully on the front porch anyway, testing for rotten wood as he fumbles the keys out of his pockets.
The faint autumn breeze gusts harder for a second, and Ichigo stops in the act of reaching for the door handle. Something tingles in his spine, tensing his shoulders and making his eyes widen. Not an unusual sensation, but not one he’s used to out here in the woods.
He could swear he’s being watched.
Ichigo turns carefully, one hand on the unlocked door, the other slipping the keys into his pocket so he won’t lose them. As far as he can see there’s nothing but the dusty greens of the pines and the quivering gold of the aspens, undergrowth stirring from the breeze alone. Somewhere a bird calls querulously, assessing if the intruder is a danger or not.
There’s nothing there.
There’s nothing there but he still feels eyes on him.
Pressing his lips together firmly, he swings the front door open and steps inside, throwing the bolt behind him with a definitive click. The electricity works, the lightbulb clicking on with a faint hum when he flips the switch. There’s nothing but dust and the ever-present cobwebs from enterprising spiders, no sign that anything’s amiss at all. The slipcovers on the furniture are undisturbed, the faded drawings from Ururu and Jinta’s childhood escapades on the fridge where they’ve been for years.
Everything’s the same.
Ichigo sighs and shakes his head, slipping his duffle bag off his shoulder to hit the floor. He’s imagining things, probably, but he’s going to make doubly sure the toolshed is locked up tonight, just in case any enterprising axe murderers get any ideas.
“Orihime and her horror movies.” He complains to the room at large as he goes to search for the broom. The interior of the cabin is warm and familiar, as unchanged as the mountains around it. This is fine. This is just what he needs for now, just him and the woods and his words.
Outside, the undergrowth rustles as something sleek and dark slips away.