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The world is falling apart. It’s not news to any of those left alive. The extended war against Ywach was enough to destabilise all three of the worlds even without the war with Aizen several years prior. In truth, Kisuke is sure that the worlds were crumbling before. It might have been a slower process, but the signs were there. Little fissures that formed cracks that now lay in shattered glass pieces. Hollows flooded Soul Society and the Human World alike, and humans that died faded away, not rejoining the reincarnation cycle, or turning into hollows. It was as if their world was saying ‘there’s nothing left to reincarnate into.’
Out of everyone, Ichigo took it the hardest. Kisuke can feel the familiar ache in his heart from his soul bond that tells him Ichigo is distraught. It’s become something of a background noise at this point. You couldn’t tell how broken Ichigo is by looking at him. He’s grown into himself over the past five years. He never wanted to lead, but the shinigami follow him, revering him as their saviour—and rightfully so. Ichigo may hate it, but the only reason half of them are alive right now is because Ichigo fought for them against Aizen, and then against Ywach, and now he continues to fight against the hollow infestation of all three worlds so they can live just a couple days longer of their pitiful lives.
As a captain in his own right at a mere 20 years of age, Ichigo rarely smiles, and never relaxes. He’s constantly in battle, like if he kills enough hollows, he can save this world of theirs. It’s an impossible endeavour. There’s no saving this world of theirs anymore, but no-one tells Ichigo that. He probably already knows. His power transcends everyone’s at this point, so high above that even the most powerful of shinigami can’t taste the unique reiatsu flavour of Ichigo. Or, everyone except Kisuke.
It’s one of the benefits of being Ichigo’s soulmate. He can feel how ridiculously over-powered the boy—man—has become, and he feels a pang of regret for all they’ve done. Not only has the world been destroyed through this petty war of quincies and shinigami, but the life of his soulmate was destroyed too. They’d taken the pages of Ichigo’s life and folded them like origami into whatever they needed, unaware—or rather, uncaring—that once they started folding the pages, they’d never be the same pristine sheets of paper again.
There’s nothing that Kisuke could ever do to repent for what he’s done. Ichigo doesn’t blame him, and maybe that’s what makes it harder. Because Ichigo doesn’t know about their soul bond. Soulmates are a shinigami thing. To humans, the red string of fate is a fun story plot point or the focus of romantic dreams. It’s not a part of reality.
For shinigami, soulmates are a part of life. Not everyone gets one, but when you face off against another shinigami with a zanpakutou, there’s a specific feeling of resonance from the clash that just screams this is my other half. And for Kisuke, the first time he faced Ichigo, the boys incomplete zanpakutou in hand, and they clashed, he’d felt it ring true in his soul.
It wasn’t some amazing moment and warmth and comfort, or a moment where the world stops as they stare at each other. But it is a moment that’s important to all shinigami and had this happened a couple hundred years earlier, while he was still a part of the Gotei and struggling with his place in the world, there would have been a huge celebration about it, and the entire thing would have been the talk of the shinigami gossip for days. Probably weeks, given Ichigo being a Shiba, for all he never grew up as one.
His soulmate was—is—Ichigo Kurosaki though. The boy he had helped groom for the purpose of defeating Aizen since the moment he learnt about Masaki. The boy who he was barely training before sending him into Soul Society with a half-assed plan and the hope that he can save a friend from this world without knowing the actual dangers he was facing. There could never be a greater betrayal to the other half of his soul bond.
And yet, without understanding that their souls are irrevocably bound, Ichigo had forgiven him and continues to forgive him. It’s inconceivable and honestly, unfounded. Not that Ichigo agrees. Kisuke had already said as much three years earlier.
“I don’t see the point in holding a grudge on a past that can never be. Things have already happened, Kisuke. All we can do is keep going forwards,” Ichigo said under the starless sky of Hueco Mundo. He offered Kisuke a wry smile that didn’t match the pain in his eyes and that radiated through their bond. “Besides, you hate yourself for your decisions more than enough for both of us.”
“That’s not the point,” he protested, because it’s not. Ichigo should at least feel some frustration at his circumstances.
“Kisuke,” Ichigo chided. “Let it go. I already have.”
Kisuke stayed silent, but they both know that he couldn’t do that.
And Kisuke hadn’t let it go. He’d researched and researched, until his body ached, and his eyes blurred, and he could feel the worry radiate from Ichigo. That research led him to this moment. Near as he’s researched, the Hogyoku grants wishes, and there is nothing Kisuke wants more—wishes for more—than for Ichigo to be able to live his life again. To send him back to a time of peace, before the visored’s hollowification and the war with Ywach. Back to a time where Ichigo can grant his own wish—to save them all.
Because he knows part of the reason Ichigo fights to hard is to avoid thinking about how many they’ve lost. Renji, Rukia, his sisters, Orihime, Ishida, Chad. Shinji is still around, but he’s not the same with Hachi, Mashiro and Hiyori gone. There are so few of Ichigo’s important people left at this point. Sometimes Kisuke feels guilty because he still has Yoruichi and Tessai by his side. His two anchors remain a solid presence at his side, reassuring and helping him to push forwards in this hellscape of a life they’re all living.
“You should tell him,” Yoruichi says. She’s in her cat form, laying on the desk. The Hogyoku sits innocently in the middle of several kidou barriers, shining slightly but otherwise seemingly innocuous. Looking at it, you wouldn’t be able to tell how much power it holds.
Kisuke hasn’t kept his plan from Yoruichi or Tessai. Neither of them argued against it. They were equally as aware that Ichigo deserves better than this broken life that they’ve forced him into. Yoruichi in particular has grown close with Ichigo over the years, almost the older sister that Ichigo never got to have.
Sometimes, the two of them would go off alone, for half a day or so. Kisuke never knew what they talked about, but the soul bond would ease just slightly after, and Ichigo would come back looking just a little more relaxed. It never lasted long, but Kisuke was happy Yoruichi could do that much.
“It would only hurt him more if he knew,” Kisuke says.
Even in cat form, Yoruichi is adept at radiating irritation towards him. It’s a good thing he’s had a couple hundred years of practice at ignoring it.
“If he ever finds out about this, he might not forgive you,” Yoruichi says. It’s resigned though, like she knows it’s a hopeless argument. She’s not talking about Kisuke sending Ichigo back. His soulmate isn’t an idiot, he’ll figure out who was the cause of that easily enough. She’s talking about the soul bond Ichigo still doesn’t know about.
A sardonic smile flits over Kisuke’s face. “Good. Then I’ll have gotten what I deserved at last.”
“You deserve to be happy as well, Kisuke.”
Kisuke doesn’t bother responding to that.
“Will you at least say goodbye?” Tessai asks. Glancing over his shoulder at the doorway to their bunker where the large man is standing, Kisuke hums. “I don’t think I should.” Or I might lose my nerve, he doesn’t say, but Tessai has always been able to read him just as well as a soulmate would be able to.
“You’re a fool,” Yoruichi hisses, but she doesn’t stop him as he reaches out to dissolve the protective kidou.
Holding the Hogyoku in his hands again is a rush. There’s a fluttering feeling of power that tugs at his veins. He’s never been inclined to try drugs, but Kisuke would wager the feeling is similar. A high like no other, that he knows he’ll never reach again. Still, he refuses to let his mind wander with the possibilities.
Please, give Ichigo a second chance, Kisuke thinks. Give him a chance to have a proper family and to enjoy peace and to fix it all and save them all.
He focuses solely on those ideas and feels the way the Hogyoku tingles. Static over his fingertips and flames under his skin, a white-hot burning sensation that sears through his veins. Kisuke holds onto the small orb tightly, closing his eyes against the now sun-bright glow, and continues to pour his wishes into the Hogyoku. And he prays. Prays to whatever deities may still be watching over the other worlds—co-existing dimensions or realities—that Ichigo can be saved from the fate of this world.
Just as soon as the feeling starts, it fades away. Kisuke opens his eyes. The orb in his hand looks considerably duller than it ever has before, and he feels weak. Like his entire life has been sucked away, even as the pain fades away.
There's the distant sound of doors being slammed over and then Shinji, Kyouraku and Ichigo are slamming the lab door open. Ichigo’s eyes are panicked. Kisuke smiles, knowing it looks weak. Maybe there was something to being able to say goodbye after all. His chest aches, and he can feel the sheet panic in Ichigo’s reiatsu.
“What the fuck is going on?” Ichigo demands, because he barely cared about politeness and boundaries before, and he’s only sharpened those edges over the years, but the level of pain and concern in his eyes almost floors Kisuke as he leans against the desk heavily, trying to pretend he’s mostly okay. He doesn’t deserve Ichigo’s care.
“Maa, you guys are so noisy. What will you do if you attract extra hollows with this racket?” Kisuke teases, because he can feel Ichigo beginning to fade. His soulmate doesn’t look any different really, but there’s a certain transparency forming at the edges of him and slowly creeping in like a bad photo filter. That means the Hogyoku needs time to work, and he can’t have Ichigo doing something impossible like reversing this effect.
“I think ya’ve got tha covered, you moron,” Shinji says, glaring.
Kisuke pouts, even as he feels that it’s true. Hollows are closing in quickly on their location. They’d probably have to move locations after today, but that’s okay. It’s a small sacrifice to make/
Kyouraku’s eyes are narrowed too, but more like he’s trying to solve a mystery. His eyes fall on the Hogyoku before they wander over to Ichigo. Kisuke doesn’t know if he can see the way Ichigo is rapidly fading from the world. If he can, the older shinigami doesn’t say a word.
“Maa, as long as you’re alright,” he says. “Let it go, you two.”
“Let it go-” Ichigo starts.
“Yes,” Kyouraku says, and Ichigo’s mouth clicks shut, because while they’re all close to Ichigo, the only one who Ichigo’s ever really listened to is Kyouraku. He’s the only captain Ichigo has ever respected as a superior, even if it is an unorthodox kind of respect. Neither of them are exactly orthodox shinigami, and it worked for them. “What would you do if this was your last conversation, Ichi-chan?”
That’s a yes on noticing.
A light glows in Shinji’s eyes, something hollow in it, but also something knowing, as he observes Ichigo, and he must notice it as well, because he backs down.
“If this was my last conversation with him, I’d tell him he’s a dumbass,” Ichigo gripes, because for all Ichigo’s accepted everyone’s deaths to varying degrees, there’s a desperation ringing through their soul bond that tells Kisuke even if Ichigo doesn’t know why, the hybrid knows he needs Kisuke in the same way that Kisuke needs him, so this can’t be their last conversation.
Except it is.
Because as much as Kisuke knows losing Ichigo is going to hurt him, the fact that Ichigo will get to live a better life is enough of a balm.
So continues to pout and flutters his eyelashes at Ichigo. They probably need only a couple more minutes before Ichigo fades entirely. Kisuke steadfastly ignores how much it hurts to feel the bond between them slowly fading away as well. It’s a little like a knife being dragged across their bond, tortuously slowly, severing their bond. “Don’t be like that, Ichigo-kun. You wouldn’t at least say goodbye to me?” he asks.
Ichigo rolls his eyes. “No,” he says. “Goodbyes are for those who’ll never meet again. I’ll always meet you again.”
“How strangely philosophical,” Shinji teases, even as the man stands tense.
“It’s cute,” Yoruichi says. “Still, I think Kisuke deserves a proper goodbye when he goes. He’s too smart to not blow himself up with an invention one of these days. You should at least give him some parting words.”
It’s silent as Ichigo looks around the room at all of his friends. Everyone but Kisuke is looking at him expectantly, and even though the bleeding soul bond, Kisuke can feel Ichigo’s caution.
“I forgive you,” Ichigo says finally. A chuckle bubbles from Kisuke’s mouth and he knows it doesn’t sound entirely sane. Shinigami aren’t exactly known for staying sane when a soulmate is lost, and a soul bond is severed. He wouldn’t be the first if he actually went insane. Still, hearing right now that even at the end, Ichigo will forgive him… the idiot doesn’t even know what Kisuke’s done, but he’s just fully willing to offer him forgiveness.
Ichigo’s body is almost entirely gone now, and Kisuke smiles sadly along with all of their friends. It must be painless because Ichigo still hasn’t noticed his own transparency. Or maybe he feels whole to himself? It’s an interesting idea. Kisuke’s not sure he wants the answer. Sometimes, ignorance is the better option.
“I love you,” Kisuke whispers, as Ichigo fades away.
Ichigo’s eyes widen, and his mouth drops open. He goes to reply, but then he’s gone, and they’re left standing in a room with one less person. Kisuke can sense the hollows pounding against the wards and some of the shinigami fighting them. Still, he can’t bring himself to go help. Ichigo is gone.
A sob tears from his throat. Whatever strength was keeping him upright fades just like Ichigo had. There’s a cold ache where their connection used to be and Kisuke’s hands grip at his chest like he can offers some sense of warmth to replace it.
“You’re an idiot,” Shinji says.
“You could have at least given him enough time to say he loves you back,” Kyouraku says, clearly in agreement with the rest of the room.
Kisuke laughs again. It’s not a pretty sound, he knows. It’s manic and strange to his own ears. The sound of a madman. “You know,” he says, looking up from the concrete floor he’s collapsed on to his friends who are watching him with a mix of caution and shared sadness. Because they hadn’t lost a soulmate, but they’d lost another friend, “it’s the strangest thing, feeling jealous of yourself.”
Yoruichi leaps down onto his shoulders and curls around his neck, a comforting weight. “You’re a fucking idiot, Kisuke. He loved you.”
“And he’ll love me again. But I won’t be the one he says it to. It’ll be a me from before everything. Someone who hasn’t made quite so many mistakes and is more worthy,” Kisuke whispers.
“You’re a fucking idiot,” Shinji echoes.
Kisuke doesn’t say a word. He just sobs.