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This isn't how any of this was supposed to go.
Starrk opens his eyes at the first kiss of snowflakes on his cheeks, staring up at heavy grey clouds, and breathes out a gust of white. The sound of children laughing echoes up from the street just a few meters away, bright despite the bone-deep cold, their thin clothes. None of them are Lilynette, but—
Starrk pulls his fur-edged coat tighter, tugs his hood forward a little more, keeps moving. The snow is too thin on the ground to even leave footprints, but he still avoids the middle of the street, the children playing. There's an old woman watching them, and she eyes him suspiciously as he passes, but Starrk doesn’t look over, doesn’t acknowledge the stare. Souls in the Rukongai are wary, but they mind their own business if there's no immediate threat, and Starrk has taken full advantage of that fact in his travels.
This deep into the Rukongai, with the district numbers so high, even Shinigami are treated with a healthy dose of suspicion, word of their presence spread as quickly as possible among the population. Aizen likely has something to do with that, though Starrk only heard the vaguest, more unsettling sorts of stories from Ichimaru when he was in a talkative mood. Still, it serves him well to know when Shinigami are present, and the squad passing the next village over are causing enough of a stir to keep Starrk moving quickly.
Finding the garganta leading here in the ruins of Las Noches was enough of a stroke of luck. Starrk isn't about to test that luck by moving anywhere a Shinigami might see him. He’s lazy, not stupid; there’s no way it ends well, and he knows exactly how it will go if it happens.
Letting out a breath that’s almost a sigh, clouding white in the cold air, Starrk glances down, checks the device pilfered from the wreckage of Szayel’s laboratory. A spot of green shines on the disk of frosted glass, bright with his proximity, and—it’s not the light Starrk had hoped to find, technically, when he started searching, but now something about the sight eases a knot in his chest, makes him quicken his pace just a little as he leaves the muddy street, slips back into the heavy grey shadows of the winter evening.
The Rukongai is nothing like Hueco Mundo. The quiet in Hueco Mundo stretches forever, the desert swallowing everything that exists, and the darkness never lifts. This is something closer to the living world, the few times Starrk has passed through it, but…worn. A waiting place, a waypoint. The land stretches for days in every direction, and though Starrk has mostly kept to the higher districts, avoided the center near the Seireitei and all the Shinigami there, he still feels as though he could walk forever and never reach its end. It’s exhausting, and Starrk is tempted to sit down, to just stop this half-mad quest that no one asked him to take up, but—
But.
(This is the part that isn't what it’s meant to be: Coyote Starrk, wandering alone, searching, motivated. None of it is right, but here he is regardless.)
The image of Harribel falling is too close behind his eyes, a whirl of ice shards as cold as grief falling past him as no one helped each other, and Starrk sighs, rubs a hand over his eyes beneath the fall of his hood. Stupid to feel guilty. He hadn’t moved, then, and he could have. The Shinigami captain might not have let him go, but—Starrk was faster. He could have made it in time to do something for her. For Barragan, or for any of the others, maybe. Even Ulquiorra, when Starrk had grabbed the human girl. Lilynette could have taken her to Aizen, and Starrk could have helped against the substitute Shinigami.
He hadn’t, though. No matter how much he’d wanted companions, comrades, he’d still let them all fall around them, lost one by one.
On the disk, the green light shines, and Starrk glances at it one more time, then shoves it into his pocket and keeps moving, close to the shadows as he reaches the outskirts of the town. Beyond the ramshackle buildings is nothing but bent, greying grass, heads bowed under the first dusting of snow, a few scattered copses of trees gone silvery with frost. It’s cold, and he pauses, almost hesitates before he takes a step out into the barren land. Maybe holing up somewhere sheltered is a better idea, at least for the night. But—
He’s close, he thinks, resting light fingers on the hilt of his sword as he weighs the options. Cold won't kill him, given his power, but a reincarnated soul, out alone in the middle of a winter night—if Starrk lingers for too long, he might end up too late.
“Too much trouble,” Starrk mutters, raking his fingers through his hair in annoyance, but he steps out into the growing dark, ignoring the way his words tumble through empty air without anyone to catch them. The silence next to him echoes, it’s so vast, and Starrk should be used to it, but he still isn't.
He still doesn’t know which of them came first, whether he or Lilynette was the original, but he’s the only one left now. He has to live for both of them.
Dragging his thumb over the disk in his pocket, Starrk lengthens his stride, casting a careful glance up the road ahead and back towards the town behind him. It’s hard to tell distance on Szayel’s sensor—deliberate, probably, so that he could feel superior while he explained it to whoever needed to use it—but if he finds them, if he uses just a touch of power, he can get them back here fast enough that it won't matter how far he has to walk.
It’s a risk with a Shinigami squad in the area, assuming they have someone with them who’s powerful enough to sense him. Still, Starrk can kill them if he needs to, flee deeper into the Rukongai, find a place to hide where they won't be found.
Assuming, of course, that he can find anyone at all.
Starrk pulls his coat tighter, closes his eyes. Aizen never cared and the fight made that clear. By fighting, Starrk paid what he owed Aizen, and now there’s no debt remaining. He can do whatever he wants. He can refuse to do things if he wants. The fact that he’s choosing this, making an effort—that has to count for something.
The snow is falling thicker now, as heavy as a veil across the bleached grasses, and Starrk looks up into the grim sky, closes his eyes. Breathes out, resignation sliding over him, and then drops his gaze back to the road.
Beside him on the packed, rutted earth, his footsteps gain an echo.
“Well now,” the captain says, deep voice light, eyes sharp as he turns his head to look at Starrk from under his lashes. “This is unexpected, Primera.”
Starrk doesn’t slow his steps, doesn’t look over. Terrible luck, he thinks with resignation, must come with being an Arrancar. Or maybe a Vasto Lorde. Harribel and Ulquiorra certainly suffered their share of it.
“I feel the same, Captain,” he says evenly. “I didn’t think they sent men of your rank out this far.”
“I'm avoiding paperwork,” Kyōraku admits shamelessly, and his smile meant to be charming. That it’s a mask doesn’t change that it is, unfortunately. “My lovely lieutenant gets so worked up when I skip out, it’s adorable. I can't help but tease her.”
Despite himself, despite the vicious cut of wariness that comes with talking so close to a Shinigami—this Shinigami—Starrk can't help but snort. “I'm surprised you don’t hole up with that other captain.”
“Who, Jūshirō?” Kyōraku smiles guilelessly. “Nanao would expect me to go bother him. I have to keep her guessing.”
A lie, Starrk thinks, slanting a look at him. He remembers Kyōraku’s little gestures during the fight, always checking on the other man, asking about his stamina and his health. Winter is a bad time for illness. It’s no wonder Jūshirō isn't here with his friend, if he’s ill.
“So you're bothering me instead?” he asks, dry, and pauses where the road splits in three different directions. Hesitates for a moment over whether to check the disk, but he remembers the direction well enough, and after a second he picks the rightmost path, already mostly hidden under a blanket of snow.
Kyōraku chuckles, keeping pace beside him without pause. “I'm curious what an Espada is doing in Soul Society with all of their memories,” he says. “If you passed on, you should have woken up here without knowing who you were.”
Starrk considers his response for a moment, the amount of irritation that’s likely to come with the truth, then says plainly, “I don’t remember who I am. I just recognized you by sight, Captain. You're well-known in the Seireitei.”
It’s clear that Kyōraku doesn’t believe him even for an instant, but he makes a thoughtful sound, rubbing a hand over his stubbled chin. His sugegasa is missing, and the snow speckles his dark hair, the delicate hairpins tucked into the unruly strands. Against the grey and white of the landscape, the pink of the kimono tossed over his shoulders is as vivid as a dream, and just for a moment Starrk feels a strange sense of vertigo, of the world being unreal. Like he’ll wake up and realize this walk, shoulder to shoulder with an enemy who’s smiling so easily, is nothing but a strange manifestation of longing he should have long since crushed.
“A soul’s amnesia is a difficult thing to break,” Kyōraku says, light. “Once a soul comes to Soul Society, all of their sins from their previous lives are disregarded. How lucky, given that I'm supposed to defend the Seireitei from invaders at all cost, and that’s so troublesome.”
Starrk snorts, but he’s certainly not about to argue. If they don’t have to fight, he’d much rather not. “It’s too cold for that kind of thing,” he says, shoving his hands deeper into his pockets.
With a chuckle, Kyōraku tips his head in agreement. “Much too cold. Nights like this are only good for staying inside with some hot sake and watching the snow.” He slants another sideways look at Starrk, intent for all he tries to veil the sharpness with those long lashes, and smiles. “There’s a nice enough town across the border in Sabitsura, if you're interested in joining me for a drink. I've stayed at the inn there many times.”
Starrk hesitates, and—it’s all too tempting to say yes. He wants to say yes, both for the company and the chance to rest. But—
“I'm looking for someone,” he says quietly, and tries not to let tension bleed into the words. If souls here truly aren't judged for past offenses, it might not be dangerous for Kyōraku to know where he’s going, but Starrk still finds it hard to trust the idea that a Shinigami will be so benevolent.
For a long, long moment, Kyōraku is silent. He raises his gaze to the iron-grey sky, then sighs like this is all a pain, scrubbing a hand through his messy hair. “The girl—I felt her vanish into you. You're not going to find her in the Rukongai, Primera.”
Starrk blinks, then comes to a halt, not quite able to stop himself from turning to face Kyōraku with something like annoyance settling beneath his sternum. “I'm not looking for Lilynette,” he says, maybe a little sharper than he means to, but—Kyōraku is aggravating. He’d forgotten exactly how much. “I know better than anyone that she sacrificed herself to save me, Captain.”
Kyōraku comes to a stop as well, just watches him, those grey eyes steady. “Sometimes, Primera,” he says quietly, “hope outweighs sense. Are you going to tell me that you aren’t looking for her in every group of children you come across?”
The truth prickles across his skin, and Starrk looks away. The children’s laughter rings in his ears, and he can't quite shake off the sound. “I know the difference between futile hope and functional hope.”
Another moment of silence, and then Kyōraku’s smile returns, slips into something crooked. “Do you?” he asks, light. “That’s a skill I'm afraid I never learned. Jūshirō always teases me for it.”
“You have companions that have been with you for centuries,” Starrk points out. “You never needed to. Lilynette and I—for so long, it was only the two of us, and anyone else who got close died immediately.” He wavers, but the truth of the next words is too sharp to keep in his mouth. “I fought for Aizen because he promised me comrades, Captain. For that reason alone, I don’t regret the choice we made to follow him.”
The wind is picking up, full of icy teeth. Kyōraku huffs out a breath, shoving his dampening hair out of his face as the curls straggle, stick to his stubble and his high cheekbones, his aquiline nose. For a moment, his expression is rueful, wry, but he doesn’t look surprised.
“Companions,” he echoes. “You're looking for the other Espada?”
“Just Arrancars,” Starrk says after a moment. It’s true enough. Without Aizen, all he is now is a Hollow. A powerful one, but—in control of his own strength, no longer a walking death sentence for those around him. Aizen gave him that as well, and despite everything, Starrk can be grateful for the gift. “Or maybe not even that, now.”
Kyōraku pauses, studying Starrk for a moment, and then smiles, small but warm. “Finding old companions doesn’t mean you can't find new ones, too,” he says, and then steps close. Cold fingers seize Starrk’s chin, and before Starrk can do more than catch his breath, Kyōraku leans in across the space between them, then carefully, gently fits his mouth to Starrk’s.
It’s warm. As warm as breath, as warm as a heartbeat, as warm as the sand in Las Noches with voices ringing all around him. Starrk leans into the kiss, into the press of Kyōraku’s lips and the slow, heady slide of a tongue against his own, the curl of a hand across his back and the deliberate drag of a thumb up his spine. Kyōraku isn't forceful, isn't hesitant, isn't anything but soft as he takes control of the kiss, leads it right in to something delicate.
Starrk closes his eyes, a low sound rising from his chest, and Kyōraku chuckles, breaks the press of their mouths to drop a kiss on the bridge of Starrk’s nose, in the center of his forehead. He tugs, and Starrk steps right into the breadth of his body, curls into his warmth. With a low hum, Kyōraku wraps his arms around Starrk, presses their cheeks together and just breathes, and the look on his face is a tangled mix of relief and want and something else entirely.
“I’ll admit,” he says, right against Starrk’s ear. “I half-thought that would end with me getting a cero right to the chest.”
The humor twists through Starrk, and he snorts, turns his head enough to kiss the corner of Kyōraku’s mouth, slide his lips to the sharp angle of Kyōraku’s jaw. “Too much effort,” he says dismissively.
Kyōraku laughs, drags a hand up. He cups the other side of Starrk’s jaw, pressing their foreheads together, and just leans there for a moment, his eyes closed.
“Come back to the Seireitei with me,” he says, quiet. “You can bring whoever you find.”
Companionship, Starrk thinks, and lets his own eyes slide closed. There’s snow gusting all around them, whirling white, and it feels like they're the only two people in the whole world, but—not forever. Not for long. “I almost killed you,” he says, not quite a protest.
“We almost killed each other,” Kyōraku says with good humor. “But we weren’t enemies, Primera. Fighting you felt like fighting myself. We’re more similar than I'm comfortable admitting.”
Starrk kisses him again for that, can't help himself. Hands splay across his hips, and Kyōraku takes his mouth like it’s something he’s been dreaming about for just as long as Starrk has. Like that lonely sort of longing wasn’t actually lonely at all, but shared.
Pulling back, Starrk opens his eyes, presses their brows together again. The wind tangles their hair together, turning it white as snowflakes settle and cling, but—it’s not as cold as Hueco Mundo, out in the dark, lonely desert. Kyōraku is a vivid presence, inescapable, beautiful, and his words settle like an impossible truth.
It’s not like being one soul. Not the way it was with Lilynette. But—maybe that’s all right. Maybe it can be something else, and still be good.
“I'm looking for Ulquiorra first,” Starrk warns, and Kyōraku beams, lazy, full of languid, wicked humor.
“I hear little Byakuya has a fondness for the cold and pretty type,” he says lightly. “We could probably blackmail him into helping open a few seats up in the Academy for all your friends.”
Starrk snorts. Ulquiorra will hate it, but—that’s hardly a reason not to do it. “It will keep them both occupied,” he says. “And we can find Harribel, to distract your lieutenant.”
Kyōraku laughs, kisses Starrk once more, light and lingering, a promise of a thousand more kisses to come. “It’s been a long time since anyone but Jūshirō could keep up with me.” He says, amused. “This is starting to look like an excellent decision on my part, Starrk.”
His own name slips down Starrk’s spine like intent and heat, a promise, and he slides his fingers under Kyōraku’s obi, presses them to the muscle beneath soft cloth. “Shunsui,” he murmurs, and Shunsui takes it as an order to kiss him again, just the way Starrk intended.