Chapter Text
The Kurosaki Household – July 17th, 1993
The smell of toasted rice and warm miso soup hung thick in the air. The scent trapped by the low ceilings of the apartment. Masaki Kurosaki leaned over the wooden table, her knuckles white around a small plastic spoon. Mid-air, a yellow glob of mashed sweet potato threatened to drop, swaying just over Yuzu’s chin before sliding down the five-year-old's cheek.
"Open wide, Yuzu," Masaki grunted softly, her tongue poking out the corner of her mouth as she tried to wedge the spoon between a pair of stubbornly locked lips.
A few feet away, the smooth hardwood floor was a mess of wax colors. Karin lay flat on her stomach, her chin propped in her small palms, her bare feet kicking rhythmically in the air. She didn't look up when her green crayon slipped past her wrist, rolling with a hollow clack-clack-clack against the baseboards. Her eyes stayed locked on the fierce, heavy lines she was carving into her sketchbook. Small, low hums buzzed in the back of her throat as she drew.
However, the real noise was coming from the narrow, sunlit hallway.
"I’m telling you, it was mine! It had my name on the lid!" Ichigo stood on his tiptoes atop a wooden stool, his small chest puffed out and arms crossed so tightly his knuckles turned pink. He glared down his nose at his father.
"An unmarked pudding cup in my fridge is basically public domain, stupid!" Isshin hollered back. He was in mid-air, hopping frantically on his left foot while trying to jam his right leg into a pair of wrinkled teal nurse’s scrubs. The fabric bunched at his knee, sending him stumbling into the wall with a loud thud. "And put those socks on! I am sick of having this exact same conversation with you every single morning, Ichigo!"
"You ate it! I know you did!" Ichigo shouted, his small arm snapping straight as he pointed an accusing, trembling finger right at the older man's nose. “Prob’ because you're a big ol' fatty!”
The television murmured the morning weather forecast. The washing machine clicked steadily in the background. Karin knocked another handful of crayons across the hardwood without looking up. In an apartment this small, every sound folded into the next until the entire place seemed to buzz.
Isshin’s eyes rolled back so far only the whites showed. He threw his hands up, his shoulders shrugging so violently his scrub top flapped, and he let out a dramatic, whistling huff as he stormed into the kitchen.
“Oh Masaki, what am I going to do about this kid?!” he wailed, dropping his entire weight forward to wrap his arms around his wife’s frame from behind, burying his face into her nape. “He’s so… so… mean to me!”
Masaki let out a long, breathy sigh that stirred the hair near her lips. Without dropping the plastic spoon, she drove her elbow firmly backward into Isshin’s ribs. “Maybe if you stopped bickering about dumb stuff, he’d leave you alone for once.”
Isshin dropped his jaw, his lower lip jutting out. He blinked rapidly, batting his thick eyelashes at her. “But… but…”
Masaki let out a low groan from the back of her throat. Abandoning the spoon, she pressed her flat palm directly into Isshin's face, her fingers sprawling across his nose and cheeks as she forced his head backward. “Aren’t you late? Go to work already!”
“What?..” Isshin froze, his face still half-squished by her hand. His eyes darted sideways, locking onto the glowing green digital display on the microwave.
7:42 AM
"Oh crap! I'm so dead!" Isshin sputtered, his voice cracking. He spun in a wild, clumsy circle, snatching his heavy canvas work bag off the counter. He lunged toward the doorway, swerved back at the last second to plant a loud, wet, hurried kiss directly onto Masaki's forehead, and bolted.
“Bye honey!” he bellowed, his socks sliding against the hardwood as he hit the genkan. Metal rings jingled as he clumsily jammed his bare feet into his sneakers without unlacing them, nearly knocking over the umbrella stand during his struggle. "Take care of the kids for me!”
The heavy front door slammed shut with a sharp crack that shook through the floorboards. And just like that, all the warmth and noise seemed to rush out of the apartment with him.
For a second, Ichigo just stood frozen on top of his wooden stool. His little chest was still puffed out, his gaze fixed on the empty hallway where his dad had just been. He let out a long, slow huff, the fight draining out of his shoulders as the quiet of the room settled over him.
With a soft, disgruntled pop of his lips, Ichigo let himself slide off the stool, his small feet landing on the light-colored wood with a quiet thud. He puffed his cheeks out like balloons, spun around on his heel, and marched straight over to Masaki. His small fingers wrapped tightly around the faded fabric of her apron, bunching the material into a tight fist.
Masaki looked down. Her eyes softened as they took in the wild, bright shock of orange hair pressed against her hip. Her shoulders dropped a fraction of an inch, her lips parting into an easy, unforced curve.
“You have ten minutes to follow me around,” she murmured. “Got it?”
From that second on, the boy became a second shadow. As Masaki moved through the kitchen—stepping around the low table, reaching into the cupboards, wiping down the counters—Ichigo remained perfectly glued to her side. His tiny hand stayed firmly anchored to her clothes, his small feet taking two quick steps for every one of hers. He followed her to the stove, shadowed her to the sink, and watched with wide eyes as her fingers moved with practiced ease, gently wrapping the heavy metal bento boxes in brightly colored cloth.
Karin’s pencil finally stopped scratching. She blinked, looking up from her colorful chaos on the floor, her brow furrowing at her brother. Her dark eyes flat and unblinking.
"Ichigo is sticking to Mom again," Karin huffed, her voice small but blunt. She turned back to her paper, selecting a blue crayon. "Big brothers aren't supposed to be sticky."
Ichigo’s ears flushed a hot, bright red. He didn't let go of the apron; instead, he buried his face a little deeper into Masaki's side, his knuckles turning white.
"I'm not sticky," he mumbled defensively, his voice muffled by the fabric. "I'm protecting her."
Masaki only offered a soft, quiet sigh, her thumbs smoothing down the neat knots of the lunch cloths. She handled them gently—one pink wrapper for Karin, a yellow one for Yuzu, a bright green one for Ichigo, one for herself, and, despite everything, a large blue one tucked away for Isshin, too.
Masaki let out a long, slow breath, her hands resting on her hips as she looked down at the orange-haired boy still anchored to her side.
"Ichigo, be a big help for Mom, okay?” she said. “Run upstairs and grab my purse off the dresser."
“Alright!”
Ichigo let go of her apron with a sharp nod, turned, and scrambled up the carpeted stairs, his small bare feet drumming a frantic, hollow rhythm against the wood. He snatched the heavy leather bag from the bedroom, spun on his heel, and flew back down the steps so fast his heels barely clipped the treads. Within seconds, he was right back where he started, his fingers fiercely latching back onto the fabric of Masaki's blouse.
"Got it," he panted, looking up at her, his eyes wide and unblinking.
"Good boy," Masaki murmured, offering a fleeting squeeze of his shoulder.
From there, the morning routine became a whirlwind of movement. Masaki practically swept through the house, herding the twins toward the door. She managed to guide Yuzu, still wiping sweet potato from her lip, and a reluctant Karin toward the genkan, ushering them out the door and into the parked car.
The moment Masaki slid into the driver's seat, the heavy door clicking shut against the crisp morning air, she let her posture completely collapse. Her shoulders slumped. With a quiet, dull thud, she leaned forward and bumped her forehead directly against the plastic curve of the steering wheel. She closed her eyes, inhaling the familiar, comforting scent of old upholstery and small wisps of aged perfume.
Then, like flipping a switch, she drew in a sharp breath, sat up straight, and twisted around in her seat. A wide grin spread across her face, her eyes crinkling at the corners as she looked back at her backseat passengers.
"Alright! What songs are we listening to today!?"
The interior of the compact car instantly exploded.
"Creepy Nuts!" Ichigo yelled, leaning forward against his seatbelt.
"No, the Anpanman theme!" Yuzu cheered, her small hands clapping.
"That song's for babies, just play something from Perfume!" Karin barked, throwing an elbow in her sister's direction.
“That’s girly. Even for you, Karin!” Ichigo protested, shooting a glare over his shoulder.
Within a few moments, the three of them were completely drowned out by their own shouting, their voices clashing in a messy, chaotic jumble of demands. Masaki’s smile held for a moment before she turned back to the windshield, her fingers pinching the bridge of her nose. She took another deep breath, letting the cool air steady her, and clicked the radio dial to a quiet, soft instrumental station.
The low, calming hum of woodwinds drifted from the speakers.
A collective, theatrical groan echoed from the back seat.
"Aw, man! This is boring!" Ichigo whined, slumping back.
Masaki adjusted the rearview mirror, catching his disgruntled expression, and offered a playful wink. "Well, you should have thought about that before you started a screaming match in my car. Peaceful drivers get fun music."
Defeated, Ichigo shifted in his seat, leaning his cheek against the cool glass of the window before rolling it down with a rhythmic creak-creak-creak. The rushing morning air whipped his bright orange hair into his eyes as he looked out at the neighborhood.
The landscape was a blur of uniform, pale gray and beige multi-story concrete apartment buildings, their rusted metal balconies cluttered with drying laundry and futons hung out to catch the sun. The roads were impossibly narrow. A winding, two-lane strip of dark asphalt that lacked any proper sidewalks. Instead, Masaki had to navigate tightly between the green and white painted lines on the edge of the road, steering clear of pedestrians and local mothers pedaling heavy, creaking mamachari bicycles, their toddlers strapped securely into plastic seats on both the front and back.
"Mom, look! Vending machines!" Ichigo suddenly blurted, pointing a finger at a bright red and blue row of glowing dispensers on the corner. "Can we stop? I want another pudding cup. Dad stole mine."
"Don't care, look over there," Karin interrupted, pressing her face closer to the glass to point at a tiny, cramped neighborhood playground wedged between two concrete walls. "That slide is way steeper than the one by our house. Cooler too."
Masaki didn't answer, her eyes locked on the road. She gently pressed the brakes, slowing the car to a crawl to let a mother on a bicycle wobble safely past a narrow bend in the asphalt.
The car came to a full stop as a loud, rhythmic ding-ding-ding began to ring out through the quiet afternoon air. Ahead, the black-and-yellow striped barrier of the railroad crossing dropped down. A second later, a commuter train rattled past with a deafening, metallic roar that shook the car’s metal frame, blurring past in a streak of silver and bright green.
"Whoa!" Ichigo pressed his nose directly against the glass, his eyes tracking the passenger windows as they flew by. "So fast! Did you see that, Karin? It’s way cooler than the bus!"
Karin leaned over from her seat, squinting out the window with a tiny, reluctant nod. "The green ones are faster."
As the last car of the train clattered away, leaving a sudden, quiet hum in the air, the warning bells died down. On the opposite side of the tracks, a very elderly woman began to shuffle across the painted green line of the pedestrian walkway. She moved at a glacial, rhythmic pace, her back bent nearly double under the weight of a small grocery bag.
Yuzu leaned forward as far as her seatbelt would let her, pointing a stubby finger through the windshield. "Look, Mom! Grandma is over there!"
Ichigo squinted at the shuffling figure, a wide, mischievous grin instantly breaking across his face. He tilted his head back, looking over his shoulder at his little sister.
"That's not Grandma, Yuyu," Ichigo snickered, his eyes sparkling. "That's actually just Karin walking back from the playground."
Smack.
"Ow!" Ichigo yelped, rubbing his shoulder where Karin had delivered a swift, precise blow.
"I don't walk like that, stupid!" Karin snapped, her dark eyebrows knitting together in a fierce glare.
"You do!" Ichigo fired back, sticking his tongue out. "You're super slow! You walk like a little turtle!"
"I am not slow!"
"She really is, though!" Yuzu chimed in from the back, nodding solemnly as her eyes tracked a pair of russet colored sparrows as they gathered on the curb nearby.
"Yuzu!" Karin gasped.
"Hey, hey, enough," Masaki interrupted, her voice dropping an octave, cutting through the bickering as she smoothly pulled the car up to the front gates of the kindergarten. The engine idled with a low purr. She looked over her shoulder, her gaze softening. "Yuzu, Karin, do we have everything? Lunch? Bags? Yellow hats?"
"Yes, Mommy!" Yuzu chirped, already unbuckling her seatbelt. Karin gave a firm, silent nod, grabbing her heavy bag and popping the car door open. The two little girls hopped out onto the asphalt, their small legs moving in a hurried jog toward the school doors. At the entrance, a young teacher in a pastel apron smiled, waving down at Masaki as she ushered the twins inside.
Masaki let out a breath and reached for the gear shift, but a soft tap on the glass made her pause.
The teacher had hurried down the steps, leaning down slightly to speak through the open driver’s side window. Her brow was knitted, her lips pressed into a tight, tentative smile.
"Kurosaki-san," the teacher began, her voice dropping into a quiet, careful register. “Please… Uh,” She paused, “Good morning.”
"Good morning,” Masaki replied, her lips tucking upward into a gentle line. “What's wrong, Hinata-chan?”
The woman took a small breath, her eyes darting toward the backseat where Ichigo sat. “Please tell Isshin-san that we're all thinking of him. He... well, he hasn’t come to pickup in quite a while, and we’ve noticed... I just hope he’s doing better. If there's something going on at home, please know you can—"
"He's doing just fine," Masaki cut in, her tone light, though her hand on the steering wheel tightened.
"You do know he’s a nurse, right?” she continued, the teacher offering a soft nod of argument. “We both have busy schedules and minor problems to work out right now. Please, just take good care of my girls today."
Before the teacher could offer another word, Masaki raised two fingers to her temple, flashing a quick salute. She rolled the window up with a swift flick of her wrist, shifted the gears, and pulled away from the curb.
The glass slid into the rubber seal with a dull thump, cutting the street noise. The car rolled forward, tires crunching over the school gravel before smoothing onto the asphalt.
Masaki kept her eyes fixed on the road ahead, her knuckles remaining pale against the leather steering wheel. At the stop sign a block away, the turn signal clicked rhythmically in the quiet cabin.
Masaki’s chest rose. She held her breath for a beat, then let it out slowly through her nose, her shoulders dropping. One by one, her fingers uncurled from their tight grip on the wheel. She reached out, her index finger nudging the volume dial of the radio to the right, letting a low, slow piano melody fill the space between the seats.
With a flick of her wrist, she tilted the rearview mirror down until her eyes met Ichigo's in the glass. Her mouth curved into a small, quiet line, and she winked.
In the backseat, Ichigo finally let go of the door handle and sank back into the cushions.
Masaki glanced at the passenger seat, the tight lines of her smile softening into something tired and real. "Well, Strawberry. Finally some peace and quiet, huh?"
Ichigo slumped back against the seat, a small, proud smile tugging at his lips. "Yeah. Karin was being way too loud anyway."
Masaki let out a light chuckle that filled the small space. "Oh, and you weren't?"
"I was completely quiet!" Ichigo defended himself, crossing his arms as his cheeks flushed. He looked out the window as they turned down a wider, quieter road leading toward his own elementary school. He watched the gray buildings roll past, his small brow suddenly furrowing. He shifted in his seat, looking sideways at his mother.
She was staring straight ahead at the asphalt, her jaw set, her hands gripping the steering wheel tight enough to make her knuckles pale.
"Mom?" Ichigo asked, his voice dropping, “Are you okay?”
Masaki blinked, as if snapping out of a daydream. Instantly, she turned to him, her eyes crinkling into a warm smile that smoothed away the tension in her face. She reached across the center console, playfully flicking the tip of his nose. "Of course I am, silly. I promised Yuzu we'd have hamburg steak. But I’m not sure what sauce to use…”
Ichigo rubbed the tip of his nose, the skin tingling where her finger had just tapped. The tight coil that had been winding up in his chest since they left the apartment simply dissolved, leaving him feeling suddenly light, almost hollow. He slumped back against the vinyl seat, his small hands finally unclenching from his lap.
He turned his face back to the window, watching the iron archway of the school gates loom closer. Outside, a father was jogging past the hood of their car, a little girl with matching pigtails bouncing high on his shoulders as she laughed.
Ichigo's eyes tracked them until they disappeared into the crowd of parents. He looked down at his own sneakers, his brow knitting slightly. Why doesn't Dad ever walk us to the gate like that?
"Hey, Mom?"
"Hmm?"
"Dad's gonna come home early today, right? Like, to help with stuff?"
Masaki’s fingers tightened on the wheel for a fraction of a second, the leather squeaking under her palm. She didn't look at him, her gaze fixed entirely on the iron gates of the school as she smoothly pulled the car to a stop. She hesitated, the silence stretching for just a heartbeat, before she turned to him with that same, unshakeable smile.
"We'll see, little Strawberry," she murmured softly. "We'll see."