Heed warnings. Yaoi, sex with a dead person, angst, mild Hueco Mundo spoilers, maybe inappropriate humor
eta: fanart of this fic by orin below cut
Disclaimer: Kubo Tite invented the characters of Bleach, and Bleach is owned by him, Viz, Perriot Studios, and stockholders I suppose. I make no money from these fics.
Description: NC 17. Boysex, boylove. Ichigo/Ishida. Usually one of the two is dead when they have sex, but this time it’s Ishida. Kink is in current vogue in the Bleach fanfic world, and I seem to have caught the bug. This one just came to me--I didn’t have to hurt myself writing it. Which makes me wonder…. But in any event, this isn’t a PWP; it’s a little story about love.
Warnings: Sex with a corpse, angst, mild Hueco Mundo spoilers
Ichigo turned Shinigami and his human body dropped to ground. When had he ever not answered the call to duty?
At this, his first sword burial for months, Ichigo hesitated. He didn’t want to mess up. He didn’t even want to strike.
He’d gotten out of the habit of performing soul burials, and he’d once been so good at them--quick, compassionate, and he’d never had to pop a soul’s forehead twice with the tsuka of his zanpakutou. He hit the mark every time. A model of Shinigami efficiency whether he was sending off a chatty child, a frightened person, or a still-dazed car-wreck victim’s soul.
His imagination, though, had never offered him this scenario. He supposed some Shinigami experienced this; it didn’t seem out of the realm of ordinariness. Maybe it was viewed as a great honor; maybe he needed to consult an officer before sending this soul away.
Why had no one ever told him that he could face this?
Ichigo scratched his head, sighed, and decided he should just go ahead. Get it over with.
He swung his sword over his head. “I’m sorry, Uryuu,” he said, knowing that he shouldn’t be sorry. He’d never given a soul burial to someone he loved. Really, was he supposed to be happy about this?
And the sword came down.
It was a strange time for Ichigo after he returned for Hueco Mundo. The strangeness of other worlds he was used to, but now it was the World of the Living that seemed supernatural. Karakura was like an imagined and not real place. Karakura was stilled with fear, hushed in anticipation, and weighed down by the fact of impending war.
Ichigo paid little attention to the ghost population. He slew a Hollow every now and then, but the Karakura district had long ago been assigned a regular, competent Shinigami.
Forget school. Ichigo didn’t go to school, and the Karakura High School administration had been surprisingly understanding. Saving the town from Aizen’s army took precedence over semester exams. “I suppose I can’t argue with you there,” the principal had said, and Ichigo, Keigo, Orihime, Chad, Tatsuki and Mizuiro were issued formal excused from attendance papers. (Rukia was training in Soul Society with her own regiment under Captain Ukitake).
Rigorous training with the Visored took place every day from nine to five, but Ichigo would check up on his family occasionally. Yuzu’s meals were better than Kensei’s, and Kensei had yet to figure out why half the crew would eat out on his kitchen duty day. Also, Ichigo would leave the Visored den every few days--to buy a Shounen Jump for Love or find the tomatoes Mashiro loved.
The town Ichigo ventured into was quiet and brave. People were friendly. Even though they didn’t know the details about the war, they felt the threat; buildings in Karakura had been blown up by mysterious forces enough times for them to believe something serious was up. Ichigo would wander the streets, wishing he could reassure people, even wanting to reveal his identity. I’m a Shinigami and I’m going to save you all. He bought sweet tarts he didn’t like from merchants with sad faces. He didn’t like being alone in Karakura. Once, he went to a movie matinee with Shinji, and three times--only three times--Ichigo and Ishida met for ravenous sex.
Ishida’s father had him on a tight leash, but according to the younger Quincy, it was possible to bust out of the Karakura Hospital Secret Underground Training Facility without Ryuuken knowing. Ishida had become adept at throwing an impression of his reiatsu the way a ventriloquist throws his voice. The price when Ryuuken found out (and Ryuuken always found out) was that upon his son’s return, training was merciless. Ryuuken worked Ishida until the boy passed out or until his feet were too raw and bloody to hold up his exhausted body.
A very irrational and spiteful punishment for breaking curfew, Ishida complained to Ichigo. Ishida was in sub-par condition the day following this foolishness. No stronger or better prepared for the Winter War.
“I’m sorry you do this for me,” Ichigo would say.
“I’m sorry I can’t get away more often,” Ishida would say, “My reiatsu trick isn’t perfected yet.”
And the two boys would kiss the way two people who would be going to war kiss. No fear of sentiment, no holding back.
Unlike Ishida who had to escape, Ichigo had an excuse to drop by the apartment Ishida had abandoned for the Karakura Hospital Secret Underground Training Facility (or so Ishida called it to make fun of his father). Everyone knew that Ichigo had been entrusted with the job of feeding Ishida’s Lizard Thing. Ishida had taken a liking (he called it “scientific curiosity”) for one of the small Hollow creatures in Hueco Mundo. Chad had shown an interest in caring for Ishida’s pet, but Ishida claimed that Chad’s bringing the Lizard Thing to Urahara’s (where Chad was training) would only endanger the little guy. Ururu and Jinta would want to play with it; Urahara might want to experiment with it. No, the pet was best left in surroundings where it felt safe, and Kurosaki would be entrusted with its care.
The Lizard Thing was fed doughnuts, gerbil food, sushi, and steak. It couldn’t get nutrients in the Living World atmosphere the way it had in Hueco Mundo, so Ishida had been experimenting with different foods. It liked carrots, but Ichigo was to feed it a different food every day and record its reactions in a notebook. He was then supposed to return to see if the Lizard Thing had pooped through the expected orifice. No one knew yet how Hollow pooped--or even if they did poop. Ishida wanted to be the one who discovered the truth.
Ichigo didn’t bother with the poop records. He brought the Lizard Thing mini-carrots on every feeding day and sat on Ishida’s bed. He watched the Lizard Thing consume carrots with what could only be described as slobbering Hollow joy. Ichigo sat there, wondered when things would be normal again, smelled the emptiness of the room, missed the soft weight of Ishida’s sweaty body and felt a hard-on in reminiscence of nights on this bed.
Three times Ishida sensed Ichigo in his bedroom. Three times Ishida escaped the hospital. Three times Ishida pulled Ichigo by the shirt to the floor where, not even pausing to completely disrobe, Shinigami and Quincy rammed tongues, fingers, cocks into one another the way lovers who expected to die tomorrow would.
They didn’t expect to die, of course, but that was the mood. Sometimes, Ishida said, he felt as if he were in a Naruse movie, one full of psychology and nostalgia. Characters thinking of the world as it should be while the camera shows the world as it is.
Ichigo wasn’t a movie buff, but he understood what Ishida meant.
Aizen’s surprise move came during the third night Ichigo and Ishida were together. There was a swell of giant reiatsu in the skies and a whistling sound over the apartment. Ishida’s last words, spoken with weary sarcasm, were “It’s like the London Blitz.”
The first thing Ichigo did when popping his head out of the rubble was reach out with his senses for his friends and family. It appeared that the strongest had been targeted, but this time the attack hadn’t anticipated combat. It had been a murder attempt. The Arrancar who threw the great ceros were gone.
The Kurosaki home--everyone fine. Isshin was still shielding Yuzu and Karin. Chad--okay. The Urahara shop--mysteriously void of reiatsu but also emanating an armoring substance that the shopkeeper had been working on to protect civilians during the war. Ichigo didn’t doubt that Urahara and Yoruichi were fine, fine … Keigo was alive but wounded. Same with Tatsuki. Same with Mizuiro. Inoue was at Tatsuki’s house, and Inoue had some work to do. Shun Shun Rika were out in full force. Tatsuki--! Ichigo felt his heart flop but then he calmed himself. Inoue is there, Inoue is there.
He turned around to ask Ishida, whose senses were sharper, if he could tell anything about Tatsuki’s injuries, and Ishida wasn’t there.
A collapsed building was no threat to Ichigo, but to Ishida…. Ichigo first scanned the streets. Ishida was fast--he’d flown away. Only after he had looked north, south, east, and west, and hadn’t detected Quincy reiatsu did Ichigo direct his attention to the rubble around him.
Mostly fiberglass as light as cotton candy. Ichigo dug through the stuff with giant strokes. The walls were thin and only the foundation of the building was concrete. Ishida couldn’t be hurt. Well… he was human and could suffocate under all this white puffy stuff. Ichigo had dug more than six meters into plaster and fiberglass when he found Ishida and pulled him out. Ishida was as light as the fiberglass and perfectly unconscious.
Ichigo didn’t think to check Ishida’s neck for a pulse. He ignored the plain fact that Ishida’s reiatsu had vanished.
“Uryuu!” He shook Ishida’s shoulders.
“Uryuu!” Again, another shake and this time Ichigo noticed blood, not much, seeping into Ishida’s sweater around his upper chest.
Ichigo pulled up the sweater and shirt. Nothing bad--just one shallow cut that ran nipple to nipple. If there were anything serious going on here, Inoue would come. She would’ve have sensed the injury and evaluated it. She wasn’t far away. She was with Tatsuki. Still, Inoue couldn’t shunpou and she didn’t have a driver’s license so Ichigo would have to fetch her, but no, no--she was with Tatsuki now and Ishida could wait.
He looked asleep. He wore that expressionless-ness of deep sleep. Awake, Ishida held his lips in as if they were ready to say something smart. The muscles in his face were alert and his jaw was tight. People who didn’t know Ishida called him stoic but that’s only because they saw his self-control and intelligence. Over the past year, Ichigo had seen Ishida show surprise, grief, happiness as clearly as any other person. Ishida could hide his emotions too, as easily as he could deadpan, but Ichigo could read what he was feeling.
Asleep, Ishida looked like a guileless boy.
Ichigo thought he should go somewhere, throw Ishida over his shoulder and discuss the significance of this cero ambush with the others. But he didn’t want to move Ishida--there might be something wrong inside that shouldn’t be moved.
“C’mon, Uryuu.” Ichigo nudged Ishida’s shoulder, very lightly this time. He was sorry for shaking him earlier--couldn’t that jostle an injured brain into a coma? “Uryuu, get with the program.”
Ichigo sat, looking at the early morning sky, hearing the faraway sounds of commotion and ambulances. He felt horrible when he thought that bystanders might have been hurt or killed. Ishida’s apartment building had been empty of tenants for a month. Ishida had been glad about this, because he could be loud as he wanted during sex. Ichigo had observed that when Ishida was quiet, his breathing was even quiet. He had that much control. But when he was loud, he could probably be heard blocks away.
Ichigo looked down the street. No other wrecked buildings, and wisely, people were staying indoors in case this first boom foretold others.
Ichigo had an urge to do something affectionate. Even a little touch would reassure an unconscious person, right? He leaned towards Ishida to give his forehead a kiss.
That’s when he realized Ishida wasn’t breathing.
He couldn’t believe it at first. His face hovered over Ishida’s for a long moment. Ichigo felt his own breathing get shallower. Inoue needed to come. Right away. She said that there were time limits on this sort of thing. She could restore a fading reiatsu but she couldn’t raise the dead. Once a soul left a body, there was no calling it back.
Ichigo put his hand on Ishida’s neck and sure enough, there was no pulse.
“Wake up!” he said in a loud, sharp voice to Ishida’s sleeping face.
Ichigo felt for Inoue’s reiatsu again; he sensed Tatsuki still under the golden orb. Tatsuki must be badly injured. Tatsuki might be near Death too.
The thought stopped him. Nothing more could distract him.
Ishida wasn’t near Death. He was dead, completely dead.
Ichigo felt for his soul, for any trace of reiatsu, anywhere.
Ishida was dead.
Ichigo fell across Ishida’s body. Still worried about smashing Ishida’s vital organs, Ichigo didn’t put all his weight over the still torso. He held himself up with elbows on either side of Ishida’s face and bowed his head. “Don’t. Please don’t.”
But Ishida already had. Ichigo, used to feeling Ishida’s heartbeat when this close to him, felt nothing. Ishida’s heart was stopped.
There was that innocent mark, a cut--that was the only external damage to Ishida’s body. Had something small, something stupid smacked him across the chest and stopped his heart? Ichigo knew from his father’s clinic that hearts could be restarted with a shock. Not hesitating, Ichigo pulled away, shot a moderate amount of energy into his fist, and punched Ishida in the center of the chest.
Nothing. Right after the blow, Ishida’s body waggled a little this way and that, but that was from Newton’s third law. Ishida’s fingers looked quite dead; the hands were cupped in a looser way than when he was asleep. There was no response, however vague, that one would feel from touching a live body, even an unconscious one. Live bodies reacted; muscles tightened or relaxed, depending on the touch. A blow to the chest would send every part of a live person’s body into self-defense. Something would jerk, something would recoil.
Ishida was dead.
Ichigo wasn’t going to punch him again. It seemed like sacrilege to do that to a body he had only recently stroked with drowsy tenderness in the early morning.
He stroked Ishida that way again. It seemed natural to grieve this way. Ichigo ran his hand softly up and down Ishida’s torso. He bent over and pressed the dead cheek with his own. He kissed Ishida’s neck. He whispered, “Uryuu, Uryuu.”
The body was dead but it was warm and it was still Uryuu. It wasn’t a corpse--not like the kind Ichigo had seen on occasion in his father’s clinic. Isshin would shoo Ichigo out the door, but Ichigo learned what a corpse was--it was a mass of flesh that wasn’t a person. It resembled a real person like a still photograph. It was soul-less, stiff, and cold.
Ishida was still a person. He was Ichigo’s dead person. He was someone Ichigo loved--loved so much that Ichigo wondered if he himself would die from the enormous grief he felt at this moment.
They were in a chasm no more than six meters deep and surrounded by fiberglass and broken things. They were alone together, away from the world and its judgement.
There was a crunching sound nearby. Ichigo turned to see the Lizard Thing crawl from the rubble and he heard it scuttle away and down the street. Content in its freedom.
Ishida was dead.
Ichigo fell on Ishida’s body. This time he wasn’t careful about pressing his full weight on it. He wanted to press it, go through it, be a part of it in the way he always wanted to when this close.
The heartbeat was missing. Ishida’s immediate arousal poking Ichigo’s thigh was missing.
But his face was still there, looking the same, same, same. Black eyelashes resting on cheeks that were pale pink and even wholesome looking.
Ichigo’s hand found other unchanged parts of Ishida--his arms, his hips, the familiar contours of his shoulder. Ichigo held those shoulders as he kissed Ishida’s parted lips. He parted them further with his own lips, ran his tongue across teeth that tasted like toothpaste. Ishida was always so fresh and clean. Before he died, he’d been standing, barefoot, stirring a pot of something hot over the stove. Already showered and dressed while Ichigo was still trying to find his pants.
Ichigo noticed for the first time since the explosion that he was naked from the waist down; he wore a t-shirt and no pants, not even underwear. It wasn’t until this moment, as Ichigo looked down and noticed his nakedness, that he was aware of his erection.
His lower body had reacted the way it always did when he kissed Ishida.
Ichigo looked away. He couldn’t see anything but rubble because he and Ishida were in a chasm of it. Ichigo looked to the sky, tried to remember Karakura, the Living World, anything beyond the strange reality of the moment.
He vowed to tell everybody. Their relationship had been a secret but Ichigo was going to mourn it without restrictions; everyone would know how special--
Ichigo remembered his father saying that the young believed they’d invented love, that they felt first love as a sublime state that surely could not have been experienced by any other couple before them in the universe.
But he and Ishida were special. Ichigo was a part-time Shinigami who had made love with his human body and with his spirit body. (Ishida didn’t have a preference for either, but he said that Ichigo’s human body seemed more gentle). Ishida--he was like no other person in the universe--so smart, so capable, bursting with talent. How could some stupid blow to the head or across the chest have killed him? This wasn’t a warrior’s death; it was a stupid death, and that somehow that stupidity made these moments even more unbearable.
Ichigo was going to crack apart if he didn’t say it. “I love you,” he whispered into Ishida’s black hair. He kissed his forehead, his soft unresponsive mouth again, kissed that place on Ishida’s throat where Ichigo would always feel, as well as hear, Ishida sigh.
Ichigo lay there, breathing hard and remembering. He could hear him again. The reflex of “uh,” a soft exhalation of breath that was no louder or more passionate later, when Ichigo was thrusting into Ishida’s body. Then it was a series of “uh, uh, uh” that took on an edge only when Ishida was about to come.
Ichigo saw him again--head thrown back. Felt him again--fingers clutching Ichigo’s arms. How Ishida jerked forward, came, fell away, and then returned to Ichigo’s body for the post-ecstasy exchange of kisses.
Ichigo’s body filled with a furious resentment that those kisses weren’t going to happen again.
Ichigo put his palm against the crotch of Ishida’s jeans. “Uryuu, wake up.” Ichigo’s fingers unzipped the fly, felt inside. “Uryuu, don’t be dead.” Ichigo pulled Ishida’s pants to the ankles, kissed the thighs still warm and damp--with new perspiration? Can a dead body sweat? It must’ve been hot under the rubble.
Ichigo licked the soft groin, felt anger and then utter heartbreak because the cock wasn’t coming to life under his tongue.
Ichigo found himself preparing Ishida the way he always did in impromptu situations. Ichigo swathed the inside of his own mouth with three fingers, and applied more and more spit around the wrinkly circumference of Ishida’s hole. He pushed the viscous stuff inside, little by little.
Ichigo had half a hope that he could fuck Ishida back to life.
“You’re a person,” Ichigo said. As he entered, there was no contraction of muscle and no spontaneous “uh” of appreciation.
Ishida was as hot and tight as always, though, and Ichigo stayed, not moving, inside him for what seemed like forever. Was anyone going to find them like this? They must’ve detected Ichigo’s reiatsu by now.
Let them see. Ichigo wanted the world to see. The relationship had been hidden, but this, this was how much Ichigo loved Ishida. Enough to fuck his limp dead body in broad daylight.
Ichigo began pumping without a sense that he was doing anything strange. The world fell away as always and he was alone with the dizzying feeling of accelerating excitement, alone with Uryuu.
This was his Uryuu, after all. This was the body that no one but Ichigo had ever touched this way, and now … the body that no one else would ever touch this way. The smooth thighs Ichigo held belonged to Ichigo. He could do what he wanted.
Ichigo breathed harder, heard something odd in the sound of his breathing--a hysteria, the choking feeling before one shouted in fear?
His beautiful dead Uryuu. Ichigo saw the pretty face through lust-narrowed eyes. His thrusts were stronger now--each nearly a complete withdrawal and then a hard lunge into the dark pleasure of a dead, dead lover. The feeling pushed Ichigo to bow over Ishida’s torso. The pleasure was growing, and Ichigo had to bow deeply to keep it from escaping out of the top of his head. That’s when he saw his tears dripping on Ishida’s abdomen.
Ichigo looked up and the tears rolled down his face. He lowered his head again and they feel thick as rain, two by two on Ishida’s white flesh.
So many times Ichigo had teased him about being white as a corpse.
He couldn’t see any more for the tears, and his throat hurt from sobs he wouldn’t let loose. He was trying not to cry and he was trying not to come.
But he did both.
Ichigo had wanted the last fuck to last forever, and so therefore his orgasm felt like the shock of failure. A shuddering expression of horror. Something not nice. It wasn’t like before. It was the last one ever.
And as Ichigo felt himself empty, he lifted Ishida’s body from the ground, held it against his own and wept.
He was so damn noisy. Had he ever cried so noisily? Even when his mother--Ichigo’s sobs were out of his control. They shook his body harder than the orgasm had.
It was forever. It was a minute or so. It was all the time Ichigo needed for his breath to slow down and for his face to relax. He wasn’t crying anymore at some point, and his face hurt from having been held in an expression of grief for so long.
“I love you,” he said as he sometimes had when feeling particularly emotional. Ishida would run his hands through Ichigo’s hair and echo the words. Ishida’s declaration was always spoken casually, without drama, as if the fact that they loved one another was so obvious it didn’t need to be mentioned. It would be like mentioning, “oh the sky is blue” or “lizards are reptiles.” I love you, for Ishida, was something a kid might say. It was a small and innocent sentence, and it couldn’t encompass what he felt and knew.
Or that’s how Ishida had explained it once.
Ichigo understood now, but “I love you,” he said again. He pulled out reluctantly and the immediate pouring out of semen bothered him for some reason. Maybe he had wanted to leave a part of himself inside Ishida.
He tasted his own semen. It was the familiar salty stuff. Ichigo wiped as much of it as he could on his lips and tongue, and then kissed Ishida hard on the mouth. He breathed into Ishida’s lungs the way he’d learned in life-guard classes ages ago, but he was too tired to exhale enough to make Ishida’s lungs fill. Ishida’s chest didn’t rise.
That would’ve been good. Ichigo would have liked that.
The ambulance noises were gone and there were no excited voices in the distance anymore. Ichigo sensed that Karakura was as hushed and afraid as always but not panicked like it was right after the boom.
How long had it been since the explosion? Long enough for someone to suspect trouble, long enough for at least Isshin to flash-step to the scene to check on his son. Ryuuken--did Ryuuken feel Uryuu die? Wasn’t he worried? Why weren’t their fathers here?
Ichigo didn’t care if they were standing over his shoulder at this very moment. He could sense that they weren’t, but he wouldn’t have cared if they were there. Anything anyone could say or do wouldn’t mean anything at all. Nothing could mean anything more except--
Oh they knew. They had to know that Ichigo was alone with Ishida. Maybe they were allowing him some time with the body. If there had been any hope of resuscitation, someone would’ve arrived, yanked Ichigo off Ishida’s body and started to heal the half-dead person.
Why wasn’t anyone coming to try to comfort him?
Ishida’s body was still a comfort, but Ichigo pushed himself away and dressed it. He pulled up Ishida’s pants, and he pulled down Ishida’s shirt and sweater. He ran a hand through Ishida’s hair.
“You’ve really lost your glasses this time,” Ichigo said. “Don’t expect me to look for them.”
A dry voice behind him: “You’ll have to make sure my father replaces them. I won’t look like myself at the funeral if he doesn’t.”
Ichigo hadn’t slipped into insanity; he was a Shinigami and he knew how Death worked. He turned around.
There was Ishida, transparent but otherwise the same as he’d looked stirring that pot right before the building fell. He was even barefoot.
There was no sympathy in his face.
“Did you see? How long were you there?”
“Long enough.” Ishida looked away and--was he blushing? “That was quite the dramatic display, Kurosaki. I only wish I’d been in my body to feel it all.”
Ichigo wiped his nose with his bare arm. He knew his face was a mess--strained, tired, grimy with dust and snot.
“Stay with me,” Ichigo said.
“You know that’s not the way it works,” said Ishida’s soul.
“But we’re different. I’m a Shinigami--you’re a Quincy. Things can be different for us.”
“I don’t want to stay in the Living World,” Ishida’s soul said emphatically. “I don’t want to risk becoming a Hollow. All souls who stay here are vulnerable to that transformation.”
That made perfect sense.
“How long can you stay?”
“Until you hit me with your best shot.” Ishida’s soul snapped its ghost fingers. “You’re a Shinigami, Kurosaki Ichigo.”
“Someone will want to speak with you. Urahara, everyone will want your imput. We still need you. The war needs you.”
Ichigo sniffed and didn’t feel hopeful.
“I’m a casualty of war, though,” Ishida’s soul said. “It happens. You’ll have to defeat Aizen without one of your best fighters.”
There was no wind in the chasm of fiberglass. The world was far away. Ichigo didn’t know if he would be able to return to it.
“There is one favor you can do for me.”
“What?” Ichigo knew he would do anything.
“Can you--will you--” Ishida the spirit looked uncomfortable and crossed his thin transparent arms. “I know it will be difficult for you--and him as well, but could you--?”
“Tell my father I said I loved him. Tell him that, even though I never said it when I was alive. I’m saying it now. Tell him that. Even if he knows.”
“He probably knows.” Ichigo felt a little scared. Ishida was being a little dramatic himself now. “Anything else?”
“Look for my lizard.”
“I’ll be waiting for you, Kurosaki. Every second in Soul Society. I love you that much.”
The words didn’t evoke another storm of tears from Ichigo. They felt right, and Ichigo even smiled.
The whirring sound of a soul being pushed out, and Ichigo’s body dropped, pantless and limp, next to Ishida’s body. Ichigo stood as a Shinigami. He held Zangetsu, the black and shiny ban kai version, even though Ichigo’s clothes weren’t Zangetsu-style; they were simple Shinigami style.
“What if I miss?”
“This is so fucking strange, Uryuu.”
“Not really,” said one soul to another. “When you think about it, something like this must happen every now and then.”
“I meant the fucking your dead body part.”
“Don’t worry about it. Like I said, I only wish I’d been in my body to feel it.”
When Isshin arrived and saw the sad-faced Shinigami sitting next to Ishida’s body, he didn’t say anything at first. He sat next to Ichigo. They sat together in silence for a long while.
“You did it,” Isshin said and gestured with his chin to the zanpakutou Ichigo still held.
Ichigo looked at his father. “I gave him the soul burial if that’s what you mean.”
“That’s what I mean.” Isshin heaved a big breath and put his hands on his knees.
"Son, you’re a real Shinigami now. I know that was hard. I sent your mother away too.”
“They can’t stay, Ichigo. It’s not right.”
Isshin snorted with pride and stood up. “Then you’re doing better than I did. You’re a real Shinigami, Ichigo. You’re a real Shinigami.”
A/N: I’m sorry.