Work Text:
The lotus rises up from the mud and blooms, pure and white, with a pleasing fragrance. Each blossom is a symbol of commitment overcoming adversity, of a state of grace.
Kisuke Urahara has been waiting for over a hundred years, searching for the lotus in the one he will love. He wants to watch the struggle toward perfection and enlightenment make them beautiful and pale, even as they writhe beneath him. Perhaps then he will finally be able to touch something without marring it.
A lotus can never be sullied.
He has had many lovers.
They have all failed him in this regard.
Yoruichi long ago gave up trying; she is his friend, his companion. When the nights are cold and dark, they share heat. It is a kind of love. But afterward, he does not dream of a golden flower, and the hollow feeling never goes away.
Aizen came close once. Over a century ago, when they were young and unburdened by the truth about the shinigami.
He remembers the cool water of the brook washing over his ankles. He was little more than a boy, trying to impress his friend— utterly failing to catch a single fish. Sousuke hooked him instead. Aizen had been sweet and gentle and good; he yielded to Urahara without yielding at all. They had made love in a patch of sunshine on a bed of tangled grass. The sun dried Urahara’s feet long before they were through.
That day had been something close to joy. But not quite.
Who knows what would have come to pass, had Aizen not been made captain of the fifth gotei, and him, the twelfth? Before he’d invented the gigai and been banished from the Soul Society? If he’d never created the Hou Gyoku and sealed it inside Rukia Kuchiki?
What dreams would he weave, then? Would Aizen have walked beside him a little longer?
But each man must follow his own path.
The boy bleeding and straining before him . . . Urahara does not envy Ichigo’s journey. Well, perhaps he does—playing the hero is infinitely less tiresome than playing the fool—and besides, Ichigo wants to save Rukia from execution. That serves his purpose, so he takes off the mask of a simple shopkeeper and shows Ichigo a small part of himself—the sword master.
He ignores the tiny voice that whispers he’s teaching Ichigo because he does not want this accidental shinigami to fail.
“Blustering talk and a scary face will not be enough to get by me and my benihime, Ichigo,” he warns, bracing himself.
Ichigo sails forward in a wide arc, his soul slayer raised high over his head. At the last second before impact, Urahara simply steps aside and whacks the boy’s ass with the flat of his sword.
Ichigo sprawls on the ground. Dust settles. He glares at Urahara, who only has a lazy smirk to offer in return, but he gets back up on his feet and wraps both sweaty fists around the handle of his weapon.
The boy is so green. He hasn’t a clue what he’s holding. He thinks it’s a sword. He cannot sense the soul inside. He cannot yet even conceive of a bankai. Urahara feels like he is molding half-baked clay.
“I will not spare you. I will come at you and if you do not best me,” he warns, “I will kill you.”
Ichigo cocks his head and grins. Apparently, this fifteen-year-old brat would have it no other way. Urahara sighs inwardly. It’s refreshing, this confidence, this determination.
Ichigo is raw fire, orange-blue flame. Ichigo is abrupt and unskilled, but he’s passionate and his learning curve is impressively steep. Urahara senses great untapped sources of spiritual energy in him.
But also, courage. Ichigo is the embodiment of courage. It would be ridiculously easy for Urahara to best him, but Ichigo could never be beaten. He cannot be humiliated.
At the moment, Ichigo is gritting his teeth, flat on his back, Urahara pressing down on him, both slender wrists caught in one hand, his Crimson Princess in the other, pointed at Ichigo’s throat.
And still Ichigo does not admit defeat.
Urahara smiles softly. “Ichigo. Your name means ‘one’ and ‘protect,’ does it not?”
The boy blinks, relaxing slightly. “A-ah. I guess my parents figured they’d have other kids.”
He can sense the boy is preparing to twist out of his grip, so Urahara pushes down harder, pressing the breath out of Ichigo’s lungs. “Whether or no, I’m sure they figured you’d be a protective sort of person. After all, you’re so determined to march into hell and save Rukia.”
Ichigo scowls at him. “She’d do the same for me.”
“She left you to die, bleeding in the street,” Urahara quickly reminds him, though he can guess why she did it, and it wasn’t selfishness. He's pushing the boy, driving at something. Normally he would never behave like this. But there's no time left.
Ichigo goes slack. His whole body turns boneless, even his mouth curves down. “I think she thought it was the only way . . .”
Urahara shifts his weight and lowers benihime to the hard dirt. “I think it doesn’t matter—you’d still go after her.” He chuckles. “You’re not ready yet and I can’t make you ready in three days.”
Ichigo licks his lips. “Try harder.”
Urahara looks into Ichigo’s eyes for a long time.
For so many years, Urahara has carefully cultivated a reputation for being casual and free. He waves a fan. He wears outdated geta and a yukata that could pass for an old man’s bathrobe. He waits days before shaving. He sports sunglasses even inside. He molds his body to the chair or the floor or the futon, using as little energy as possible.
Since the day of his exile, Urahara has tried to erase every graceful movement, every stroke of power, every suggestion of seriousness from his manner. But these things have always been inside him. Primitive. Instinctual.
As he looks into Ichigo’s eyes, he betrays himself. For a split second, Ichigo Kurosaki glimpses Kisuke.
The kiss is like plunging into deep, warm water. Ichigo responds immediately. Urahara lets go of those slender wrists and sighs when wiry arms wrap around his neck. He tortures Ichigo’s mouth and spreads the boy’s legs. They find a natural rhythm.
He licks the salt from Ichigo’s throat and bites on the cords of his wounded shoulder. He half-carries Ichigo to the hot springs and sinks in up to his waist, pulling Ichigo into his lap. He takes the boy in the water—rough, animalistic—and for a moment, thinks of sunshine and blades of grass tickling his ankles. But he cannot afford to be gentle with Ichigo. He won't lose the boy like he did Aizen.
Ichigo comes twice before he does. When Urahara finds release, Ichigo squeezes all around him, hugging tight, panting in his ear . . . Urahara smiles, tucking his head down under Ichigo’s chin, kissing the hollow of his throat, grunting, and then . . . a flash of light.
This boy cannot lose.
Ichigo will not fail.
The lotus cannot be sullied.
He cries out. Tendrils of his spirit-force ricochet all around the training grounds, shaking the earth to its core.
“Urahara-sama . . . Urahara-sama!” Ururu calls again, tugging gently on his sleeve.
Urahara snaps open his eyes. “Wha . . . ?”
“You were asleep, Ura,” Jinta says.
He blinks up at the children. His whole body is tense and sore; he covers his lap with his long sleeve.
“It’s time to go down into the training room, master,” Tessai quietly reminds him. “Kurosaki-kun has been waiting there since early this morning to continue his training.”
Urahara uncrosses his legs and stands up, stretching. “Thank you, everyone.” He pats Ururu's head and walks over to pick up his cane, nonchalant expression carefully in place.
Buddhists often say that dreams are prophetic visions. In fact, Buddha himself said that all the world was dreamt whilst he slept on a lotus blossom.
“You made funny noises,” Jinta says, following close behind him. “Was it a nightmare? What didja dream about?”
“A golden flower,” he murmurs, unsheathing his soul slayer. “I was looking for a golden flower.”
He’s still searching.
Ichigo hasn’t bloomed yet. But oh, when those petals stretch forth . . .
The lotus has its roots in the mud,
Grows up through the deep water,
And rises to the surface.
It blooms into perfect beauty and purity in the sunlight.
It is like the mind unfolding to perfect joy and wisdom.