The minute Kisuke notices Kurosaki’s reiatsu flaring and then vanishing, he curses and launches one final, devastating attack, no longer interested in playing around with the Quincy.

“Grimmjow!” Kisuke barks, even as he braces himself and then allows his bankai to fall. “With me,” he orders as soon as Grimmjow looks up from the dead Quincy.

“Yeah, yeah,” Grimmjow rumbles as he darts to Kisuke’s side, focus sharp and reiatsu poised. “Who’re we goin’ after this time.”

“If we’re lucky, Yhwach,” Kisuke says as he hones his reiatsu senses in on the lingering traces of Kurosaki’s power and takes off, pushing himself as quickly as he can across the tangled ruins of Seireitei. He doesn’t bother trying to stay on the ground, not with his eyesight beginning to fade once again, but that doesn’t matter.

He has enough strength to stay above it all.

He has to.

(His arms ache from the strain and his face stings and his eyes are blurry, the world nothing but color-shape-movement but it’s fine, it’s fine.)

(Once the looming migraine fades, everything will be fine.)

(Everything will be fine.)

Kisuke breathes through the first wave of pain and presses on, coming to a halt near the lingering traces of Kurosaki’s reiatsu and tilting his head up—

The blue of the sky is obscured by twisting, overlapping arrays, beautifully complex and so bright that his eyes water in protest.

(Not that he needs his sight to see the power, not with his senses driven to their limit from both bankai and his looming migraine.)

(He hates this state, hates it hates it hates it…!)

Kisuke forces his eyes closed. Breathes through the next wave of pain. Forces himself to focus-!

There. A break in the arrays keeping Seireitei separate from the Soul King’s Palace, already beginning to heal. He needs to be quick, before the pathway closes once more.

He lifts his arms and hooks his fingers, using the motion to help him focus, to help him direct his reiatsu deep-deep-deep into the torn and tangled arrays. “When I tell you, run,” he grits out, not bothering to glance over at Grimmjow. “Follow Kurosaki’s trail into the Palace.”

There’s a brief moment where Grimmjow remains silent, his attention like a brand against Kisuke’s senses, before he huffs and steps up to Kisuke’s side, saying, “Gotcha. We’ll fuck that bastard up good.”

“You better,” Kisuke growls back, then takes a breath. Holds it. Concentrates. Yanks. Feels the arrays begin to give, feels the flex and ripple and twist of power as it fights him, lashing out and blazing bright-bright-brighter and—

“Go!” Kisuke orders sharply as he heaves, tearing the pathway open once more and forcing himself to hold it open—

“Don’t fuckin’ die,” Grimmjow snarls even as he launches himself up, his own reiatsu lashing out to tear apart the tattered threads still in his way. His signature fades, obscured by the arrays, until it disappears at last.

Kisuke grits his teeth, straining to hold the pathway open a few seconds longer just in case, but his strength is fading, he can feel it, can feel the way the arrays writhe in his grip, strength growing as his own fades and—

The pathway closes with a snap, ripping a strangled cry from his throat as he collapses to the ground, drained and worn and aching in a way he hasn’t felt in nearly a century. Rubble digs into his legs, into his palms, and dust clogs his nose, his throat, until his lungs strain and a dry, racking cough rips through him, rattling his brain and making pain lance through his head.

(He… he hates… he hates this…!)

(Weak! Defenseless! Useless!)

(Get up get up g e t u p !)

He doesn’t even have enough reiatsu left to drive the dust away. Has to just wait, has to just suffer—

Power ripples across him and suddenly he can breathe again. And then— footsteps. Careful-cautious-sure as they approach. It’s… familiar. The power and footsteps and the presence but he can’t… he can’t put a name to it. Can’t determine friend or foe. Can only claw desperately at his instincts that waver between friend-foe-trust-don’t until everything’s muddled together into one angry, aching lump caught somewhere in his chest.

He forces himself back onto his heels. Forces himself to not fall. Forces himself to brace, one hand on Benihime’s hilt and the other clenched tight around a handful of dust and gravel. Forces himself to crack open his eyes, squinting against the brightness, against the blur, as the person approaches. Notes black fabric and a white coat and then something pink atop it, and tries to remember, tries to force his mind to fucking work—

“Urahara-san,” the person says calmly, evenly, the voice niggling at Kisuke’s mind even as the person pauses outside of his reach. “May I approach?”

Kisuke tips his chin up slightly more, baring his teeth at the other. He ignores the sharp, indrawn breath that action receives and tightens his grip on Benihime’s hilt, trying to gather his strength once more. He’s only going to have one chance at escape, one chance to survive—

“Urahara, stand down,” the voice orders, steady and unwavering and firm and he—

He folds. Lets himself sag back onto his heels. Lets his chin drop. Lets the tension drain from his trembling limbs.

(This isn’t… this isn’t someone who should be ordering him, is it?)

(No… no, but something about it is… familiar, is almost safe…)

Rubble crunches as the other approaches, and then… a shadow. The rustle of fabric. Words that blur and writhe through his mind, meaning lost but tone even-steady-certain.

Kisuke lifts his head slightly and slits his eyes back open, squinting against the brightness of the sun, of the arrays overhead, of the brilliant pink traceries laced through the other’s body—

(Pink…?)

(Who does he know that has pink reiatsu…?)

Pink approaches his head, traceries outlining a hand that he can’t otherwise see and—

The breath catches in his throat. Panic claws at the inside of his chest. No— no—! He can’t let the other touch him— he needs to leave, he needs to—

Warm fingers settle gently on his chin and tip his head up. A thumb traces along his jaw and—

Connection jars through his mind, warm-focused-powerful, and coils through his body like a snake entrapping its prey. The pain fades under the influence of… of his soulmate’s touch, but it doesn’t leave, lurking on the edges, poised, waiting—

“Shit,” the other breathes, so soft Kisuke only catches it because of how focused he abruptly is on the man. “Right. Okay. We’ll deal with this later,” the man continues after a moment, voice settling back into steady confidence. “Urahara-san, I need to clean your face off to check your in— shit,” the man cuts off with a sharp hiss as Kisuke yanks his chin free and flings his handful of gravel at the man, trying to scramble back, trying to escape—

His body gives way before he can even rise to his feet. He topples, hand spasming around Benihime’s hilt and arms trembling, pain rushing back like a tsunami. He… loses a moment, vision going black and ears ringing with the not-sound of his migraine, wiping away everything but pain and then—

It cuts off.

Warm fingers cradle his chin. Connection drives the pain back once again.

There are arms wrapped loosely around him, holding him steady against someone’s chest, holding his arms at his side, holding him prisoner—

(He… he can’t— he’s never wanted his soulmates!)

(He won’t let them control him!)

“Urahara,” the first voice snaps, an unspoken command to remain still, remain calm, stop fighting. “You’re safe,” the man continues quickly, fingers tightening on Kisuke’s chin to prevent him from yanking his head away again. “Will you stop that? Unless you actually want to be in debilitating pain right now.”

Kisuke huffs but relents, forcing his tensed muscles to relax.

(He can’t escape.)

(One at his front and a second holding him in place and him barely conscious even with the pain relieving effects of Connection?)

(He’s trapped, pinned in place like a bug for display, and they all know it.)

“Good,” the second person murmurs in his ear, voice gentle-kind-caring in a way that sets Kisuke’s teeth on edge. “We have you, you’re safe,” the second man continues, even as he readjusts his grip and lets a hand drift upwards, covering the first man’s hand on his chin, fingers settling against his skin and—

Connection jars through him once more, the snake’s coils tightening until he can barely breathe for it all.

(What will they do, what will they force, he’s trapped he’s trapped he’s so weak and he’s trapped and he can feel their strength, he’s trapped he’s weak he’s at their mercy—)

“Let’s see how bad it is,” the one in front of him mutters as he leans in to swipe fabric across Kisuke’s face, smearing the gore further but managing to wipe some away. The man makes a thoughtful noise and ghosts a finger down Kisuke’s right cheek, tracing the wound that Benihime had fixed, then slides his hand back up and gently pulls Kisuke’s eyelid up with his thumb, murmuring apologies as Kisuke winces at the light. “Huh… healed, but I’ve never seen the like before,” the man says as he lets go and settles back. “A good sign, but…”

“We can’t stay here,” the one holding Kisuke finishes. “Urahara-san is in no state to continue fighting and the Quincy were aiming for him.”

The one in front huffs, the sound so tired-resigned-heartsore that Kisuke grimaces and tilts his head as far to the side as the two will let him, refusing to sympathize with… whoever this is.

(He… thinks he knows, now that the pain in being held at bay.)

(He thinks he knows but fuck, why him?!)

(What are they going to demand of him?)

“The Ugendo should still be relatively safe,” the one in front decides after a moment. “Take him and hole up while I see about dealing with the last of this mess.”

“I—”

“No,” the man snaps. “I can’t leave the field, Jyuu-kun. Just… please. Guard him for me.”

Silence drags between them, and Kisuke holds himself carefully still, trying not to even swallow just in case that draws the two men’s attention back to him.

(Stay quiet, stay still, let them believe him pacified.)

(Struggle has proven futile.)

(Patience.)

“Fine,” the man holding him bites out, his grip remaining gentle despite the tension Kisuke can feel through the man’s body. Tension that doesn’t bleed out even when the man takes a careful breath and repeats, “Fine,” with a softer cadence. “We’ll go hide. But Shunsui? If you die, I’m going to drag you back to life and bury you in paperwork.”

(‘Shunsui’… ‘Jyuu-kun’…)

(Fuck, why did he have to be right?)

(And why them?)

Kyoraku gives a dry, humorless laugh and leans in, in, his body radiating heat as he pins Kisuke between them and does… something. A quick, silent kiss, perhaps, or even just pressing his soulmark to Ukitake’s, but Kisuke has no idea and isn’t about to try and open his eyes in order to check.

(Soulmate or not, he just… he’s intruding.)

(He’s wedged between them and barely clinging to consciousness with his fingernails and this is not where he wants to be!)

“I’ll do my best not to die,” Kyoraku murmurs as he draws back, and then Kisuke can feel the man’s attention switching to him. Can see — even with his eyes closed — the way Kyoraku’s reiryoku burns with quiet determination. Can see as the man lifts his free hand towards Kisuke’s face again and…

And he can’t entirely suppress his flinch as knuckles brush across his bloody cheek. Can’t entirely keep his breathing steady as Kyoraku freezes, reiatsu rippling with some emotion Kisuke can’t parse, and then draws back.

“We’ll win,” Kyoraku declares, firm and confident and determined in a way that Kisuke knows is fake, knows is just a mask, but… but like that terrible night so, so long ago, part of him wants to believe it. Wants to believe that things will work out, that everything will be fine, that someone else will just take care of everything…

It’s a foolish dream.

(And yet…)

Kyoraku breathes a sigh, fingers relaxing on Kisuke’s chin and then releasing, his hand slipping out from under Ukitake’s hand as Kyoraku finally pulls away. The loss sends an unpleasant jolt through Kisuke’s body, the pain becoming more present despite Ukitake’s hand still in place, but he tamps down on his reactions before he can give himself away too badly.

(They know he’s in pain, but they don’t need to know how much.)

“I’ll be back as soon as I can,” Kyoraku promises as he stands and steps away, reiatsu flaring strong-sure-determined, and vanishes in a burst of shunpo.

At his back, Ukitake sighs and slumps forward, hand steady on Kisuke’s chin and everything about him radiating protection in a way that leaves Kisuke’s mouth dry and his hands trembling with more than pain and exhaustion.

(Why?)

(Why him?)

“We should get moving,” Ukitake murmurs after a long, quiet moment. “I’m sorry, Urahara-san, but I need to stop touching your soulmarks in order to carry you,” he warns gently, though he doesn’t immediately let go. Instead, he carefully tugs Kisuke’s body around with only one hand, arranging both of them the best he can. “On three,” he says gently, voice low and soothing as if… as if he knows exactly how bad Kisuke’s head aches even with Soulmate Connection dulling the pain. “One, two, three…”

Kisuke bites back a whine as Ukitake lets go and pain sweeps back in like a tsunami; everything is once more too much – too bright, too loud, too present – and as gentle as Ukitake is it still aches when the man scoops him up and rises to his feet. It takes everything he has to stay still, to stay silent, as Ukitake moves, the rush of shunpo sweeping over them as they leave behind the chaos of the battlefield for the outskirts of Seireitei.

The bright-powerful-distinctwards of the Palace overhead pierce Kisuke’s senses, brighter now that they’re away from the slowly healing section that Kisuke tore open, and without Ukitake or Kyoraku using their Connection with him to dull the pain…

It’s too much. It’s too much, and he wants to just carve—

(No, he knows now, he knows—)

—just burrow underground even though he knows that’s not the answer, knows that won’t do anything—

(He’s not seeing the power with his eyes, he knows this, and yet—)

—but he wishes it would. Wishes he could. Knows that he can’t, even if Kyoraku and Ukitake hadn’t captured him.

(He’s weak as a newborn and just as helpless, just as useless—!)

Kisuke breathes out. Turns his head as far as he can. Tucks his face into Ukitake’s shoulder and breathes through the waves of pain. Of nausea. Focuses on the gentle silver glow of Ukitake’s power cycling beneath the man’s skin. Focuses on the strength of it. Lets himself drown in it, lets it overwhelm his senses until it’s all he can see-feel-sense.

It’s… surprisingly easy.

He drowns in an ocean of liquid silver. Drowns in cold, protective power. Drowns in a well so deep, so fathomless, that he doesn’t know if he’ll ever come back.

(He drowns and drowns and drowns, until all he sees is silver, all he feels is blessed cold, all he senses is a man he never thought he’d trust like this—)

(He drowns.)

(He fades.)

(It ends.)