Archive of Our Own

“Urahara Kisuke speaking.” Kisuke picks up the phone without looking and continues to scan the newly arrived unpacked boxes from Seireitei.

First thing he hears is a pen clattering against a surface, followed by a quiet curse. And the second thing is: “Fuck. I didn’t mean to call you.”

All motion stops and Kisuke casually leans against the closest box where he sits, fully focusing on the call.

Now, now… With the way Ichigo and Kisuke had been metaphorically dancing around each other like a pair of almost courtshiping birds, one would expect a better opening line.

Kisuke huffs, faux offended.

“Rude. Who were you trying to get to then, Kurosaki-san?”

“None of your business,” is the quick and sharp response. It’s a behaviour Kisuke is no longer used to.

Kisuke narrows his eyes, even as a bit of trepidation rattles in his chest like a coiled snake. Very rude indeed. It has been few weeks since the last contact between them. Quite paradoxically, this time Ichigo has been the one to avoid the interactions Kisuke has tried to instigate. Thinking the younger man needed some time alone, Kisuke let it be. They are adult with their own agency after all. Now he’s not so sure it had been a sound decision. He waits for Ichigo to hang up but to his eternal but pleased surprise, he decides to answer instead.

“…Rukia. I was supposed to call Rukia and update her about something she wants updates on,” Ichigo says with a rueful sigh.

Mysterious. As much as Kisuke wants to dig into it, Ichigo will clam down quicker than Yoruichi slipping into a Shunpo.

“Be that as it may be, you are already on the line with me. Is there something I can help with? Friendly chat, or if you called to talk your troubles out, even just to offer a sympathetic ear. I am always here for you.”

“I know you’re always here. Not, like, physically - well, sometimes physically - but I mean more consistently. Like a constant. A weird constant. Like- like a hat. Not a normal hat, though. A specific hat. Yours. Reliable hat. Which sounds stupid. It’s not stupid, it just… stays. The hat stays. You stay. That’s the point. I think. Ah. Am I babbling?”

“Are you drunk, Kurosaki-san?” Kisuke guesses with a hint of a laugh in his tone.

It is quite rare for Ichigo to be so talkative. Not that Kisuke minds. Listening to Ichigo passionately argue about a better toilet paper brand would be a time well spent. And listening to Ichigo talking about Kisuke’s hat? It’s endearing enough to squeeze Kisuke’s weary heart.

There’s a faint clink of glass from the other side, followed by the soft drag of something across the desk, maybe papers, being pushed aside without much care.

“…I might be. Just a little. Tiny bit. Bitty scritty itty.”

“A lot of tiny bits make a rather substantial amount.”

“Yeah, yeah. But I’m not really drunk, just a bit tipsy. Swear it on my pinky toe.” That’s quite a distracting image.  “Call me Ichigo, Kisuke. This Kurosaki business is old.”

If pinky toe was distracting, Kisuke’s name leaving Ichigo’s lips is something else entirely.

“Sure, Ichigo-san,” Kisuke rolls out of his tongue smoothly. There’s a replaying huff that turns into a light cough. Kisuke’s eyebrows draw together at the sound. “So, what made you pick up a drink and found you in a need to, ah, update Kuchiki-san?”

“Where to even start. I just… everything sucks lately, you know?” Ichigo immediately begins.

Oh, wow. Usually it takes two hours of senseless talking and bickering to start being this candid.

“Uni’s a mess, I’m behind on things I shouldn’t be behind on - fuck this particular translation - and it’s like I can’t get ahead no matter what I do. And it’s not even that bad, I’ve had worse, right? Moreover, there’s this pressure. Like something’s stuck in… Ah, fuck it. I have gone and fallen hard and deep in love with an asshat and now there are unforeseen consequences.”

Kisuke goes very still.

The easy slant of his posture straightens just a fraction, fingers tightening around the phone before he consciously eases them again. His other thumb traces idly along the edge of his fan, a grounding habit, though the motion is just a touch slower than usual.

Love.

The word lands somewhere beneath his ribs, quiet and precise like a Quincy’s arrow, entirely unwelcome in how deeply it settles.

For a fleeting, treacherous moment, something warm and sharp coils in his chest.

“…Is that so?” His tone is easy and soft. While all clues points at their growing closeness, Ichigo could have found a new fancy.

“Yeah. Turns out, when you pine hard enough, flowers start to grow in your lungs. Or trachea, maybe stomach, or a fucking oesophagus or whatever. I don’t know the science behind it. Would you? Since you’re THE scientist of a society made by the dead, have you ever met with the Hanahaki condition in the unliving humans?”

Does Kisuke hear that right? Ichigo has a Hanahaki, the disease of unrequited love? Is that why he was calling Rukia, to tell her? Maybe confess to her? But, quite frankly, Ichigo wouldn’t call her an asshat and he said he meant to update her. Which means she had known for a while and Kisuke had not.

Blinking himself to the present, Kisuke’s mouth is moving before his thoughts can fully catch up. 

“It’s an extremely rare condition. I know of a few cases in plus souls and precisely two instances in the reiryoku active individuals. Most of them truly harboured unrequited love, while a handful of others confessed and had their happy ever after. Beyond confession, the only reliable treatment is a surgical operation to extract the roots of the flowers. It’s effective but it comes with a cost. The patient loses all romantic attachment to the person in question and cannot develop it again.”

A bleak but survivable end. Kisuke never thought about what option he would go with. It would heavily depend on the situation and its variables. Now, as Ichigo confesses to suffering from it, his mind is thrown into a calculating storm. All possibilities are branching, collapsing and reforming just to find the best solution.

“And yes, the flower roots sprout from the lungs.”

“Good to know, I guess? This is stupid. Everything is stupid. I know I’m being stupid about it, because I am well aware he likes me back.” Ichigo says with frustration. There’s a following noise of ’bang’ which could indicate Ichigo slamming his head against the table.

“Is that so… If I may be bold to ask, what flower…?” Kisuke carefully inquires, his curiosity a never-ending pit of shattered porcelain goods.

Unexpectedly, Ichigo snorts. His breath comes through clearer for a moment like he’s holding the phone nearer.

“Grows, apparently, in my lungs? Sure you can ask. But I’ll answer only if you answer one of my own questions. Deal?” Ichigo bargains.

Kisuke huffs and rearranges the way he sits against the boxes to be more comfortable. The digging into his side is getting quickly old. “Now I’m too curious to back out. Deal.”

“I’ll answer first, cause I feel generous.” Ichigo exhales slowly, the sound lingers just a second longer than it should. “Funny thing is, I didn’t know what it was at first. I mean, that’s not weird. First, it’s just petals, small and not very distinctive to me. I even identified it wrongly.”

Nothing is straightforward with this one, no matter how frank Ichigo's personality is.

“What did you think it was?” Kisuke asks, the hand holding his fan coming up to tap it against his chin gently.

A faint creak of something being gripped too tightly comes from the phone speakers.

“A black dahlia.”

Kisuke catches the smallest hitch in Ichigo’s voice and doesn’t comment on it, his mind searching for a longtime ago stored flower language.

“That’s… not exactly a very happy or romantic flower,” he finally says carefully once he remembers the meaning of the black dahlia.

Mystery and betrayal. Sadness and mourning are the first meanings that come to mind.

“No. No, it’s not,” Ichigo agrees quietly. “But it would fit, so I didn’t find it that off-putting. Besides the rather darker side of the flower, it can also represent strength, resilience, and dramatic elegance. It can often be used to signify an intense personal reinvention, to turn from betrayer to a loyal partner. I think especially the dramatic elegance and reinvention suit them.”

Ah. Then Ichigo has known from the beginning for whom he carries a torch, or in this case, a flower. And as much as Kisuke tries to be an objective observer, he can’t help but draw the connecting lines from their shared past.

Kisuke shakes his head. He doesn’t have the right information.

“But you said it wasn’t black dahlia. What did it turn out to be?”

Something wooden creaks, a chair probably, as Ichigo shifts his weight.

“Once I properly looked at the shape, it turned out to be a camellia. Such a dark shade of crimson colour that it could be mistaken for black,” Ichigo’s voice takes a faraway tone, which over a phone translates into a faint static snap as his attention turns inward, replaying the memory.

“When I coughed a first whole flower-“ 

Kisuke widens his eyes. His grip on the phone slips for a fraction of a second before tightening again, the plastic pressing faintly into his palm. 

But that’s one of the later stages of the Hanahaki! 

“—It looked so harmless. Refined and polite. It reminded me of the person I like.”

A soft rustle follows, fabric shifting near the receiver.

Kisuke doesn’t dare to move. The slow taps of his fan still against his fingers, forgotten mid-motion, as something quiet and sharp settles beneath his ribs like a forceful ache.

Camellia.

Of course it would be something like that.

“I put it into a vase, obviously. The next day, I watched how the whole head had dropped off. It took me by surprise. No slow withering, just a quick end. Bang! Gone like that. Kinda like how he strikes when no one expects it and the results are ultimate and perfectly executed, sometimes in a dramatic fashion,” Ichigo chuckles.

Kisuke exhales through his nose, slow and measured, though his thumb has begun tracing the edge of his fan in a quiet, repetitive motion.

Then Ichigo continues, quieter now, the words softer, closer to the receiver.

“He’s perfect, you know? Always overcoming all unfavourable odds. Always offering to help, sometimes straightforwardly, sometimes covertly. And let me tell you about his eyes… the cold silver that warms when you look at me. The intensity in them is strong and sure enough to burn, cut or devour me. I feel seen like with no one else.”

Kisuke’s breath stills, just for a moment. His heart is hammering in his chest, hopeful and sure all at once. Stars are dying somewhere in the vast, cold universe but right now the level of heat in Kisuke’s body could ignite nuclear fusion in his core strong enough to create a new star.

“Yeah?” He whispers softly, the grip on his phone fluctuating between clenching and delicate. This conversation feels like something fragile has landed in his hands and he’s so terrified of breaking it. “My eyes are like that?”

Ichigo hums, low and sensual it makes Kisuke’s blood boil.

“If I remember correctly, we made a deal, right? I answered, now it’s your turn.” Ichigo’s voice gains a firmer and raspier inflexion.

“Yes.” The word leaves Kisuke steadier than he feels, though his pulse is loud in his ears, each beat echoing with a single, dangerous thought ‘it’s me’.

“Kisuke, I really really like you. Actually, I love you enough to cough camellias. Would you go on a date with me?” There’s a small hitch of breath on the other end like Ichigo almost pulled the words back too late.

Like the flowers growing in his lungs choose this moment to choke him.

Kisuke answers before the silence can settle. 

“Nothing would make me happier.”

Omake:

The next minute, Kisuke listens to Ichigo hacking his lungs out.

It is not pretty.

On the other hand, the day they meet for a date, Ichigo jokingly brings a bouquet of dark red camellias as a gift, because dark humour is a trend and Ichigo went through too much to have a healthy coping mechanism.

Let it be known, Kisuke used preserving Kidou and the bouquet is now proudly displayed in their bedroom.