Chapter Text
Karate, above all else, is a discipline of the self.
It’s a saying that she knew, sort of, in her past life. The type of motto found in movie posters and said in somber tones in copy-and-paste anime. It is only years into this new life that Tatsuki begins to understand what it actually asks of her.
As the seasons go by in the meandering Karakura Town, she learns that her grandfather’s dojo is at its most beautiful in the early morning. The tranquility of those hours feels as though it belongs to her—before the afternoon bustle wears upon the mats, before voices and footsteps fill the space and disturb the stillness she has come to cherish. Sometimes, she finds herself pausing in the doorway in the silent moments when the breaking dawn filters through the shoji screens, washing the worn cedar flooring in a pale glow of morning light. In summer, she opens the windows wide and lets the breeze coax a soft tune from the glass wind charm dangling from the eaves. In winter, she sits on the floor of the engawa, watching the slow, meandering snowfall through the glass panes that separate her from the cold.
There is an oddity to these quiet moments. A dichotomy between the rage that lives beneath her skin and the control built into her muscles, brick by painstaking brick.
Her body, young and weak as it is, has an inescapable timer attached to it. No matter how hard she tries to push it, there are firm limits to the biology of a child that she will never be able to overcome naturally. There is a humbling that comes with the understanding that she must instead look inward--yet, whatever embarrassment she feels exists before the audience of only herself. Tatsuki understands, most of all, that pride, of all things, will not be what holds her back from the patchwork of her plans.
If she overcomes this now, there will be nothing stopping her.
Tatsuki, above all else, must come to terms with the reality that she will never achieve the soaring heights of those depicted in the story she once knew—
But that does not mean that she is helpless.
And so, in the privacy of these early mornings that she loves so much, she takes a damp cloth, drops to her hands and knees, and pushes herself down the full length of the cedar floorboards in zokin-gake. It is a simple, daily task that appeases her grandparents and instills a routine to her early mornings. She scrubs the wooden floorboards until her knees are raw, muscles sore, and the quiet rhythm of the chore has cleansed her vitriolic thoughts.
It is exhausting work for a child’s frame.
That, too, is the point.
She finds control within these repetitions. Chores, kata, posture—a ritual carved out to tame her restless mind. The rest of the world lies where it belongs beyond the glass panes of her family's house, her focus acting as blinders that narrow her vision until she can see only what lies immediately before her. She grounds her control in her breath, pulling deep, deliberate air down into her tanden, clamping her ribcage tight to smother that hot, unnatural heat coiling within her chest.
Though her efforts rarely achieve the meditative state she aspires to, they nonetheless give her the one thing she needs most: the illusion of control over her own body.
Tatsuki does not participate in the standard classes at the Arisawa dojo. There is no need, not when her grandfather and uncle see to her training in individual sessions. They discuss her kata and her stances over breakfast, look through community flyers and mail correspondence for local children’s tournaments, and take her to larger stadiums and dojos for their seasonal kumite. Her family lives and breathes the art of karate, down to their traditional clothing and their loathing of modern “heartless” martial arts.
While she stays off the mat during general hours, Tatsuki loves to sit and watch the sparring. It is mesmerizing to see brown and black belts exchange sharp strikes and sweeping kicks with violent speed. Her uncle, a fourth-degree black belt, remains a heavy hitter and a constant dominant force in internal dojo matches. Listening to him explain the unspoken currents of a fight—how to read an opponent's subtle body language and react before a strike is even launched—fills her with a fascination that goes far deeper than pure technique.
There is something almost… intimate about fighting when viewed through that lens.
A shoulder dips before a punch. A heel lifts before a step. The eyes follow the target a fraction too long. A breath catches, and suddenly she knows what is coming before the strike is thrown. Her uncle calls these things tells. Her grandfather calls them mistakes. Tatsuki thinks of them as conversations.
A language spoken through actions instead of words.
She begins to watch for them everywhere.
At first, it is only in the dojo. She sits with her knees tucked beneath her as she watches the older students trade combinations, quietly trying to predict which one will move first. Then she starts doing it during her own training. Her uncle will throw a feint and she will refuse to bite; her grandfather will shift his weight and she will move before he tells her to. They praise her when she gets it right and correct her when she mistakes intention for movement.
By the time Tatsuki is old enough to enter children's tournaments, she has already learned that winning does not necessarily mean being stronger.
It means seeing the opening first and having the ability to capitalize on it.
That becomes her particular talent.
She is not the biggest child in her division, nor the fastest, nor even the most naturally powerful. There are children who can kick harder than she can and children who have been training just as long under instructors who specialize in competition. Tatsuki simply seems to notice things. She notices when an opponent becomes frustrated. She notices when someone favors one leg. She notices the moment before an inexperienced fighter commits too much of their weight to a strike.
Her family considers this proof that their training is working.
Tatsuki considers it fun.
Her perfect solitude is, more often than not, interrupted by pretty laughter and a soft voice.
“Tatsuki-chan,” Kurosaki Misaki is a picture of effortless grace as she speaks words that make her stomach curdle, her long orange hair catching the light as her smile pulls her eyes into gentle lines, “would you like to join Ichigo-kun and I at the park?”
Wednesdays are the longest, and loudest, day at the Arisawa dojo. By noon, the serene quiet of the morning is thoroughly erased by the thudding of bare feet, the sharp snapping of fabric, and the echo of enthusiastic yells bouncing off the high rafters. Her grandfather and aunt run back-to-back classes for every skill level, guiding an endless wave of students—from clumsy toddlers tripping over their belts to disimpassioned elderly looking to encourage more activity within their static lives.
Wednesdays are, typically, the day that the Kurosaki’s attend the intermediate classes for youths.
At six, it is still somehow odd to see Kurosaki Ichigo adorning a white belt.
She does not dread Wednesday’s per se, however, there is certainly a good portion of her energy set aside for scenarios such as this.
For, in the end, Tatsuki’s answer doesn’t really matter. As she wipes the back of her neck with a cold towel, it is her grandmother who speaks for her--
“Oh, Tatsuki-chan would love that.”
She can only respond with a snide side-eye. Her grandmother is, perhaps, the only sane person of the Arisawa family--but, in being so, is the largest thorn in Tatsuki’s side. There are only so many play-dates that Tatsuki can withstand before her brains feel like they are going to explode from holding in her true thoughts and feelings and desires.
But, every once in a while, she will give into her grandmother’s meddling. No matter the steel that she is trying to forge into her heart and bones, Tatsuki cannot in good faith disappoint a person who so very clearly loves her with no ill-intention. There are many surprises that she has found in this life, but her grandmother’s sweetness (and good food) have all but won her over in the many weeks and months that her father is but a voice over the phone.
Unwrapping the towel from her neck, Tatsuki wipes her face before saying, “Can I change clothes first?”
Misaki simply offers that impossibly warm smile. “Of course.”
It is always uncomfortable interacting with the Kurosaki’s.
The walk to the park is painted in the lazy, golden hues of late afternoon. Karakura Town in the mid-nineties carried a sleepy rhythm, the hum of distant traffic muffled by the steady drone of summer cicadas and the whisper of breeze through the ginkgo trees. The playground is entirely empty today, cleared out by the humid summer heat. Ichigo runs ahead to get the better of the two swings, narrowly holding on for their survival. Tatsuki runs after him, if only so she is not left behind with her.
Ichigo is great, actually, when he’s not crying his eyes out. Despite being six, he is still a sweet and excitable boy who is actually very easy to talk to. With Ichigo, there are no "tells" to decipher. He wears every single emotion right on his sleeve—if he is frustrated, his eyebrows scrunch together until his forehead wrinkles; if he is happy, his whole face lights up so bright it almost hurts to look at.
For someone like Tatsuki, his absolute transparency is a strange relief. There’s something simple to their growing dynamic that feels comfortable, even if it feels distinctly one-sided. She does hope that, at some point, she feels less like an enabling adult and something closer to an actual friend.
“Tatsuki! Look!” Ichigo yells over the rhythmic squeak of metal, his face flushed pink from the afternoon heat. “Watch how high I can go!”
She does, her mouth twitching into a partial smile as she waits at the edge of the sandbox.
Perhaps bridging that gap will just take time.
“I bet you I can go even higher than you,” she shouts, so that he can hear her over the cacophony of noise that he is making.
Ichigo makes a sound of protest that is between a squeak and a yell of outrage, her words striking a new sense of determination into his little heart as he swings back and forth in earnest. He pumps his legs with a desperate rhythm, throwing his whole body into every arc as the iron chains shriek in protest.
It’s not that Tatsuki likes crushing the hopes and dreams of small children, but she can’t help but grin as she runs to the swing beside him. If she were wiser and kinder maybe she would let him live in his bubble of fantasy--but Tatsuki has never been good at backing down from a challenge.
As the sun traverses through the sky, they fight for the claim of the highest arc until the competition, inevitably, dissolves into who can jump the farthest from their swing into the sandbox.
Ichigo launches himself at the mid-peak of his arc with a loud huzzah. He flies through the air, arms windmilling, before landing with a soft crunch in the sand. He stumbles forward with comical surprise as he skids onto his stomach. What concern might arise is smothered as he scrambles up almost instantly, brushing dust out of his hair with a proud, gap-toothed grin. He plants his sneakers where his heels had hit, marking his distance with absolute certainty.
"I beat you can’t beat that!" he yells.
Tatsuki doesn't hold back. She wields the momentum as she lets the swing carry her high into the late afternoon light before letting go. Air rushes past her face as she sails through the air and, for a split second, she feels completely weightless.
The few moments she spends in the air is what she would consider pure freedom--the utter lack of gravity driving her down, stomach fluttering from the vertigo, and the endless blue sky above them.
Her sneakers hit the sand well past Ichigo’s mark, but she stumbles forward a single half-step to absorb the force before catching her balance. It is with, perhaps, too much eagerness that she turns around to inspect the sand.
Ichigo stares at the distance between his mark and hers, his big eyes wide with open wonder. "Woah. You practically flew!"
"You jumped earlier than I did," Tatsuki says with a laugh, her chest heaving as she catches her breath. "If you wait until the swing gets to the top, then you can use the swing to push you forward and not down."
A genuine, light feeling settles in her stomach. She realizes, with a quiet sense of relief, that the strange gap between them—the invisible wall separating her adult mind from his childhood innocence—feels much smaller when they’re both covered in sand and trying to catch their breath. She isn't just an observer playing a role, here. She’s actually having fun.
"Look at you two," a soft voice calls out.
Misaki steps down from the paved path where she’d been watching, carrying two small paper cups of chilled tea and a damp hand towel. The wonders of a mother’s bag. Her long orange hair catches the golden sunlight, and her smile is as warm as the summer breeze rustling through the ginkgo trees above them. She kneels right there in the dirt, entirely unbothered by the sand dusting her dress, and uses the towel to wipe the smudge of dust off Ichigo’s forehead before turning to Tatsuki.
"Did you win, Tatsuki-chan?" Misaki asks gently, her amber eyes crinkling at the corners as she offers the other end of the cool towel to her.
Tatsuki glances at Ichigo, who is currently puffing his cheeks out in anticipation of her answer.
"It was a tie," Tatsuki says with a crooked grin, taking the towel. "He got higher on the swings than I did."
Ichigo brightens instantly as he beams up at his mother. Misaki lets out a soft laugh as she reaches out to pat Tatsuki's head with a touch so light and kind it makes the heavy, iron stillness behind Tatsuki's ribs go entirely quiet.
There’s always a small part of her that says: you don’t have to do this. You don’t have to get involved--
And then she remembers what brought her here. Rage and grief helps steel her resolve, even as she finds it impossible to meet Misaki’s warm, amber eyes.
Kurosaki Misaki is going to die one day--
And Tatsuki is going to let it happen.