Chapter Text
It starts a few days after Rukia runs him through with her sword. He sits in class and something just shifts and snaps inside him, a coiling, burning feeling like a snake curling up before it strikes. It thrums through his blood in time to his rising heartbeat, his breath coming faster, harsher and something in the back of his mind demanding that he move, that he snarl and fight and struggle and kill.
Ichigo has always considered himself to be a quiet person; not necessarily a quiet soul, but outwardly peaceful, silent, observant. This thing is a new irregularity, something foreign latching itself onto his very soul, or perhaps, something old rising from its slumber.
Clearly this change is not within, but also without. In front of him, Rukia straightens stiffly, her head barely turning to glance at him out the corner of her eye. Ichigo’s knee begins to bounce rapidly, up, down, up, down, up, down, bouncing against the bottom of his desk.
What the hell is happening to me? Ichigo wants to snarl at Rukia. What the hell is this?
The bell rings to signal the end of class and he barely hears the teacher’s cheerful chirping, wishing them a good weekend as he gathers his things and all but sprints out of the room. It’s a testament to how tightly strung he feels that when someone knocks into him in the busy hall (blue hair, blue eyes, enemy, threat, fight, kill, his mind registers with bullet-like punctuation), he moves to turn around with fire in his eyes, muscles coiled tight to throw a punch before he could even realise how bad of an idea that is.
‘Leave it.’ And then an arm is in front of his chest, hand resting over a thudding heart as Rukia stands beside him, looking off into the distance as she spoke quietly to him. Still, he strains momentarily against her arm before she says again, ‘Leave it.’
Her tone brokers no argument. Her touch, despite his need to just fucking ruin someone or something, anchors all his frantic energy just enough for him to turn around and stalk off to his locker.
Rukia leans against the one next to him as he shoves books into it a little too forcefully, slams the door shut after getting his bag with just a touch too much strength.
‘Come with me,’ she says as Ichigo braces his hand against said locker, eyes closed in some feeble attempt to fight this roaring wave of energy. And normally that would be enough, that knowledge that she knows what’s happening to him even if he doesn’t but this isn’t him. ‘Sparring day today.’
‘Rukia,’ he chokes out. ‘What the hell is going on?’
Surprisingly, she smiles. It doesn’t quite reach her eyes, but still, it is unexpected.
‘I think,’ she says, ‘we ought to have a referee present for this.’
The dusty space outside of Urahara’s shop has become a convenient place for them to train after school. Hats-and-Clogs seems to find it rather entertaining, watching a Shinigami without her powers beat the ever-loving fuck out of a substitute with them and so is quite happy to accommodate them. With the late spring heat beating down upon the town relentlessly, the dust swirling in the light breeze and the blue sky overhead supervising this practice session, Ichigo should feel anything but tense.
And yet here he is, fists bundled up in his jean pockets, teeth gritted, shoulders hunched.
‘You took all of my powers. Not just some of them.’ Ichigo still has enough of his normal self about him to duck his head with a bit of guilt at that, grunting yet another apology. Rukia waves him off nonchalantly as Urahara walks out of his shop, two wooden bokken in hand. ‘You’ve….ah-overfilled your glass of water. Gotta tip some of it out.’ A rub at the back of her neck. ‘Gotta tip a lot of it out, apparently.’
Ichigo remembers how it had felt, Rukia’s power flowing into him when she ran him through that night. It felt like cool, controlled ice sliding down his spine and settling into the pit of his stomach, growing and growing until his veins were filled with red-stained snow and his lungs were exhaling freezing blizzards. This, this, was like molten hot lava in every inch of his being, a volcano barely contained with every tensing of his muscles, every step he took tinged with roaring fire. Rukia had felt like a cool, controlled breeze, slowing his thoughts down and relaxing his muscles. Ichigo felt comparatively feral. It’s laced in how he stalks back and forth across the dusty front of Urahara’s shop, impatiently ripping his jacket off, shirt-sleeves rolled up with a hasty motion.
‘It doesn’t-‘ How does one even convey the difference in how his power felt now? That spark from a swirling snowstorm of grace and control to this boiling inferno? ‘It doesn’t feel like you.’ And a wince because yes, he’s a teenage boy, he knows exactly how this might sound but eloquence isn’t high at the list of his priorities right now. ‘It feels like fire in my veins Rukia. Like-‘
‘Like you’re on a leash that’s five seconds away from snapping and you just can’t stop pulling.’ She shrugged. ‘You’re adapting to the power you took. Making it your own. What you feel now is yours, not mine.’
‘But-what about-‘
Urahara interrupts with a cough and a smile. ‘Ichigo, my boy, I can see you practically spilling over at the seams. Water adapts. Whatever tips from your cup…’ His cane taps in Rukia’s direction. ‘Will find its home in another.’
When first he had fumbled in catching the practice sword from Urahara, now he caught it smoothly, not even breaking stride.
‘So, really,’ Urahara says. ‘It’s in Kuchiki’s best interests for you to beat her senseless this time. What?’ he protests innocently at said person glaring daggers at him. ‘It’s awfully predictable knowing who’ll win these practice matches all the time. I’m excited for this.’
‘You’re a damned sadist, is what you are.’ Rukia muttered, giving the practice sword a few practice twirls before settling into her stance.
Enough talking, something seemed to murmur at the back of his head, full of excitement and animal instincts as Ichigo settled into his own, all that power ready to be channelled through the weapon he held, towards the enemy in front of him. Fight, fight, fight!
‘Stay.’ She said to Urahara as he bowed and moved to leave. ‘This…might be a little…’
‘Messy?’ Underneath that hat, Ichigo can see eyes twinkle in amusement as they peer at Ichigo. Rukia made some sort of noise of agreement. ‘My, you must be wound tight something fierce.’
‘Something like that.’ Rukia answered for him.
Urahara shrugged, seating himself on the front steps of his shop. ‘Far be it for me to stop you.’ His fan opened, waved at them lazily. ‘Begin.’
It takes everything Ichigo has to not blindly launch himself at Rukia, instead advancing carefully, albeit hastily, as that voice in his mind snarled at him to swing, smash, thrust, take.
It seems Rukia had no such compunctions and Ichigo rapidly found himself on the back foot, sword barely deflecting her rapid blows. One, two, three strikes are parried and then suddenly his ribs are aching, then his thigh, and then his back is bruised.
She tuts behind him and that something in the back of Ichigo’s head roars in disapproval and he just-he can’t-he-
‘Is that the-‘ Rukia is cut off, sword shaking under the force of Ichigo’s singular strike. She steps back, Ichigo stepping forward with an upwards slash that would’ve taken Rukia’s head off it’s hinges had she not been swift enough to snatch out of his path. The following slash downwards is parried, and Ichigo follows his momentum around, wildly spinning and thrusting with a wild laugh of relief as that tension in his shoulders finally had somewhere to go.
He must have looked mental as the tip of the bokken catches her in the sternum and Rukia is sent stumbling back with a choked noise of pain. That red haze clears for a second and Ichigo lets his own weapon drop momentarily, laugh choking under his own noise of concern.
‘Are you-‘
‘Fool!’ And, as Ichigo stumbles back clutching his face, all he can think momentarily is that blimey, that was gonna leave a shiner and a half. ‘Would you ask a Hollow if they’re alright? Would you stop to ask a Hollow to dinner?’
His answer is a growl and a low sweep taking her legs out from underneath, Rukia’s breath leaving in a whoosh of air. Ichigo’s following thrust down meets nothing but dirt as she barely rolls out of the way, takes his legs with a sweep of her own and suddenly she is atop him, wood pressed against his windpipe.
Her white shirt is covered in dust and dirt. The wooden bokken is covered in nicks and dents from the impact of their blows. Her hair is messy, half covering shining violet eyes as she looks at him in victory. A shudder shoots through her body and Ichigo wonders in the back of his mind how it felt, picking up the bits of his storming, molten power in her calmer, cooler soul. He wonders how they match together, how each beat is met perfectly, parried just right to keep them pushing one another as far as they could safely go. He wonders how he looks in her eyes; wonders if he looks as wild as he felt, wonders if his eyes reflect the fire flooding his veins, if his lips tilting upwards reflect the snarling creature in his chest rising to the challenge.
Briefly, he wonders if they had been doing this for weeks, or for years.
‘Do you yield?’ The customary challenge. We can stop this right here, her tone says. We can stop this right here and find another way to settle you down but I don’t want you to.
‘Like hell.’
‘Are you keeping score?’
‘Ah Tessai. Closing time already?’
‘Yes boss.’
‘Hmph. I should probably call a halt to proceedings, shouldn’t I?’ Tessai sits his huge frame beside Urahara and the pair look upon the brawling couple framed by a dusky sun. ‘I have them about even.’
‘There’s a monster in that child.’ Tessai observes, as Ichigo takes Rukia’s strike to his abdomen without a flinch, his own coming in to smash into her shoulder. Had it been a live blade, Urahara has no doubt it would have cleaved down to her lungs with the strength of the strike. He can only agree with Tessai’s assessment. Ichigo looked absolutely wild.
Urahara is grateful that Kenpachi was not present. He only has so many training swords to smash.
Wood smashed against wood with that sharp, satisfying sound of training done properly Urahara so loved to hear. For as long as they had been fighting, brawling, grappling, they only seemed to be hitting harder, moving faster, the two partners dancing in tandem to the most violent song they knew that seemed to only escalate in rhythm.
A high strike from Ichigo is parried, a low strike from Rukia jumped over and the two clash in the middle, pushing and panting from the exertion. Ichigo, unpredictable brute that he is, once more does the unexpected.
His weapon clatters to the ground as he sidesteps Rukia in a graceful movement completely contrary to his erratic, bear-like strikes that had came all afternoon. The lack of opposing force sends her stumbling forwards, eyes wide and a hand is fisted in her hair, a knee slamming into the back of her own leg.
Rukia’s back hits the floor with a thud and Ichigo is above her, the hand full of her hair keeping her head pinned against the ground. Her weapon is yanked out of her hand almost effortlessly by its handle and Ichigo presses it against Rukia’s throat with a strange gentleness; practically a caress. Anyone but Urahara might find the answering smirk sliding onto Rukia’s face odd, given the situation.
Lips move but Urahara knows not what they say. He simply stands, Tessai rising besides him and leaves quietly.
He knows better than to attempt to halt a contest that would never end, a perfectly matched push-and-pull tide that would extend beyond practice and battle.
‘Do you yield?’ Ichigo’s voice is throaty above her, the wood pressed against her throat hot from the continued beatings it had taken. Eyes bore into her own and for a second, she swears she sees a hint of yellow in his irises, his sclera turning a shade of unnerving black before he blinks. Instead, honey-gold eyes implore her own.
‘Do. You. Yield?’ This can stop, his eyes say. The storm is calming. Thank you.
Her arm reaches out, grabs his own bokken with lightning speed and presses it against his own throat. He doesn’t even flinch and the smirk that slides onto his face floods her stomach with the same type of molten lava that seemed to have fuelled his brutal blows, his short and jerky movements full of tight, barely leashed power.
‘Do you?’ She challenges back and if her own voice is throaty, her own eyes half-lidded in response, who else is to know but them?
They stayed like that for a moment, mellow rum gazing into proud violet and the setting sun only adds to the timelessness of the situation.
‘Draw.’ They murmur together in unison and the weapons are tossed aside before Ichigo helps Rukia to her feet and the two of them are rolling their sleeves down, redoing buttons that had been knocked loose, putting their now dusty blazers back on.
It’s a little early for them to be completely open, completely honest with one another just yet - she had only stabbed him with her sword a few weeks back after all – but eyes say what tongues will not. What used to be firey, whiskey-flavoured eyes were now mellowed as Ichigo rolled his shoulders, shrugged his blazer on with a stiff sort of stretch to his body. Broad shoulders that had previously been taut with the power of a Shinigami rolling through like waves were now lowered, relaxed as he rolled his neck.
‘Will it happen often?’ He asks and Rukia ignores how they’re walking closer together on the way home than they had been on the way here. ‘That-whatever it was.’
‘Most likely. You’re only human.’ She means this clinically, scientifically, not as an insult. Never as an insult. Ichigo, for all his irregular flaws, is so brilliantly human, she doesn’t think she’ll ever be able to mean it as an insult. ‘I’m surprised it’s taken so long to build up like it did, to be honest.’
As Ichigo scratches under his chin musingly, she is struck with how sharp all his features are in dying light and rising night. ‘Maybe all that Hollow-fighting kept me level.’
Those mellow eyes regard her with such fondness, it is hard not to smile back when she nudges him with her shoulder and promises to help keep him level if the Hollows won’t oblige.
It feels most irregular, to be a Shinigami without her zankpu-to, training a human brimming with energy he can barely keep a handle on. But, as they walk side-by-side to their odd sleeping accommodations of a bed and a closet, Rukia thinks that maybe, irregularity in life wasn’t such a terrible thing.
In a rare moment of peace since her arrival in the human world, Ichigo’s deep, heavy inhales and exhales signalling his sleep come almost as soon as his head hits the pillow. Rukia knows not of what he dreams of, but her sleep is filled with visions of mellow-gold and never-ending black sclera clashing, snarling, swirling amongst one another in the most perfect storm she has ever seen.
Steps away, Ichigo’s own sleep, so often disturbed by dreams of Hollows ragdolling him, his family, his friends like chew toys, is soothed by intangible fingers of ice sliding down his spine, skating through his hair, violet eyes swirling in a kaleidoscope of different variants.
Dreams that were most definitely irregular, but greedily welcomed and devoured by both participants nonetheless, even if they woke up none-the-wiser to the source of their morning tranquillity.