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Rukia has her heart in the right place, she knows the basic rules of grocery shopping —make a list and have a tidy budget, but she keeps picking the wrong items for him anyway. Still, Ichigo doesn’t discourage his shinigami girlfriend from plucking out heaps of chocolate peanut butter cups and Pocky for absolutely no reason and lugging them in his cart wordlessly. He takes extra aubergines and dragonfruits to compensate.
A year and a month after the almost end of everything, he’s finally moved to an apartment in the bigger and brighter city for a medical degree that he knows he will never professionally practice in the human world. She said to him, it can be a good thing —you have time, learn to be independent and age up a bit. He thought, at least veins and arteries function similarly in both worlds, and it won’t be a waste of his time before he becomes a permanent shinigami.
When Rukia and Ichigo get past the aisle of senbei crackers and okaki, they pause to look at a row of freezer chests filled with frozen boxed desserts, their last stop.
Rukia, very eye-catching pretty in a pink sundress and yellow sandals, makes nice with a nearby grocery stocker (whose grunt turns to a hearty smile the moment she calls to him —things Ichigo the boyfriend doesn’t miss) who politely and enthusiastically points her to various desserts.
Thinking he’s not really interested in anything frozen at the moment and Rukia’s fine anyway, Ichigo wanders back to the adjacent fresh section and wonders about the imported plastic-wrapped cotton candy grapes and if she would like to taste one.
She rejoins him soon after and tugs on the sleeve of his jacket.
“Pay for this as well,” Rukia hands him another chocolate something-something, icy to touch, probably an ice-cream pint.
“Huh?”
Rukia commanding him in a grocery store is a strange sight, as grocery is a fancy new human term she learned recently. Besides him, Yuzu has always been helpful to her and taught her many basic human interactions outside of their home while Karin told her all the ways scammers work and how not to get ripped off by sleazy business owners, and Rukia always paid them rapt attention; she is something of a true human expert now. And more annoyingly—
His sisters made her capable of fighting him over basic brands of conditioner and shower gel; debating him on the comparative merits of maitake and shiitake; making him reach for the top shelf; lecturing him on ceremonial grade matcha; incite arguments about silicone whisk versus stainless steel whisk without provocation just because Yuzu taught her how to bake once; steer his shopping cart to wherever aisle she wants even if he’s paying.
He suspects this is probably one way for her to show off her human skills to him.
“Rukia…” Ichigo looks at the pint and still reluctantly puts it in his cart, “alright, that’s the last one.”
He says that but there’s something that sounds like you know that’s bullshit right? coming from the back of his head. He’s too happy to see her to deny her anything anyway, it has been very dull without her here; he totally let her steer his cart anywhere in the past hour.
Rukia turns back, huffs a: “what?”
“You know I don’t need a lot of these.” Ichigo still tries and points to mostly her desserts inside his cart; he will probably burn a third of his monthly grocery budget.
Rukia folds her arms and says simply, “fool, they’re not just for you. It’s for me and your sisters. You left, I’ll comfort them. I’ll bring these over when I visit them.”
“Oh,” responds Ichigo and then, “hey, I didn’t leave them! And what do you mean you’ll comfort them? Is there something wrong?” he slouches, thinking about his sisters, “it’s not even three full months…if goat-chin isn’t…”
Rukia softens for a bit, reaches up to him, stands on her tiptoes, and pats his head, “no, no, I went to your house before I got here, I like to visit them, too, so don’t think highly of yourself and you know your sisters, they —well, they’re not going to tell you upfront but they miss you already—”
“Ahh.” Ichigo is a bit old at heart, and the past months have been a handful, and more so for his sisters; he’ll visit them. He looks at Rukia.
“—and they’re still getting used to you being gone to do expected things like study for once.”
Ichigo scowls, “hey!”
Rukia taps the handle of his cart, “and you’re not paying attention, are you?” she sighs. Patiently, she adds, “look closely, these are really not for me.”
Ichigo looks down, their haul is mostly her choices but actually for him, composed of basic necessities she picked out thoughtfully. He added small things like replacement cleaning mop heads, rolls of bandages, and paper towels (“practical,” she comments as if he needs her approval), and her desserts for his sisters. Save for the treats, it’s everything he’s running low on; she will still make him pay for everything.
Rukia comes unannounced to see how Ichigo is doing one late afternoon while he’s reorganizing his wall of books and other pre-med readings. It’s been bleak —the past few weeks, with nothing but his mountain of to-dos and shinigami duties and stubborn dark clouds. She visits him once or twice a month.
So in that afternoon, she’s 95% responsible for the sudden increase in his heart rate and maybe, about 75% responsible for the clearing of the damn gray clouds outside.
(she entered gracefully through his sliding balcony doors in the 10th floor, surprised him, took a good look at his still mostly-barren student shoebox apartment devoid of basic supplies, stared at him like a truly-disappointed Kuchiki, sighed, bodily dragged him out, and told him she’s taking him out, definitely nothing romantic like a date; they’re doing grocery; her purple eyes are very bright and piercing at his despondent heart, she told him, “how are you living? you’re really hopeless without me, aren’t you?)
When Rukia and Ichigo decide to head back, the sky is already dark blue and purple-tinted, somewhat cold, but the streetlamps have low lights in them, casting everything and the pavement they quietly walk on in warm honey light.
They take to the park to cut through the massive city foot traffic, talking and arguing on the way —if souls could travel and if genetic diamond oranges grow in Soul Society. There are steady, low rumblings of buses and cars around them, and they can smell the night air, chilly spring evening mixed with the sizzles coming from nearby yakitori stands. Rukia and Ichigo stay back for a minute, the fireflies are out, curiously early, like tiny candlelights wisping against the park treelines; neither speak for a time, they are a long way from Karakura and Seireitei.
“Are we going to have the usual?” Ichigo asks her quietly. They have this thing, dates, at his apartment or elsewhere, whenever they get the chance.
He calls her his girlfriend but she doesn’t refer to herself the same way. He thinks she is probably just clueless about the particulars, she hasn’t reached the abstraction part of her human lessons yet but she is not mercifully blind to what they are. She knows of a phrasing that is similar, she says she’s already spoken for.
“Yes,” Rukia agrees, a bit bashful.
If he isn’t carrying 12 grocery bags, he would have held her hand.
They sit on one of those crooked benches lining the sidewalk, quiet at first, and then after a very short while, inevitably start to argue about who has the apartment key.
“It’s missing,” Ichigo says, drawing the vowels, “the keys. It’s your fault.”
“I don’t even live here, how is it my responsibility?” she says, incredulous.
“You dragged me out!” He fumbles with his pockets and then finds them empty.
“Well, we don’t really need a key anyway, I’ll just kick it open.”
. . .
Inside his apartment, Ichigo plops his grocery bags down on the counter and fishes out two packs of instant ramen, tofu, some pre-sliced meat, vegetables, and bottles of shochu, and leaves them on the counter before disappearing somewhere.
Rukia looks around and —as she is something of a human expert herself — putters around his apartment, no longer very dismayed at his lack of practical supplies which made her question if he’s seriously taking care of himself. He did not bring a lot of his personal stuff with him, she thinks, he probably likes it that way, making it easier to keep things tidy and to move out. Apart from his books, phone charger, and shinigami badge, the only other thing he values is the 10-cup coffee maker at the corner. It has coffee lazily sloshing around, probably on its third reheating.
“Ichigo,” Rukia calls, when he comes out of his tiny bathroom, she notices how long his hair has become. She offers, “I’ll put away your supplies.”
Ichigo pauses and smirks at her — roguishly handsome under the dimly lit bulb in his kitchen, it needs changing, too, “fine,” he says. He makes it like she owns the place as well, “just don’t mix sugar and salt again, that shit will fucking kill me next time."
(the humor in that, of course, is that, he doesn’t really mind)
She huffs, laughingly, turning away, “I don’t make the same mistake twice.”
Ichigo takes his portable electric stove out, takes two futons, bowls, and chopsticks, collects all the ingredients, and goes to the balcony to set up. He could be breaking all sorts of building fire regulations but he chooses to have his cheap dinner dates with her no matter what.
“Rukia,” he says slowly, rolling his sleeves up to his elbows and stirring the pot, right when she comes to the balcony and sits in front of him, there’s a table between them and he’s arranged the bowls neatly already. He adds quietly, “thanks for visiting.”
Their meetings are still quite few, weeks in between and some days stretch unbelievably long, and it must have taken a lot for her to visit and be annoyed by his standard of living, they are still rebuilding after all. Ichigo doesn’t really ask for much: productive days, good hollow beating, a warm bed, and her hand to hold.
Rukia looks at him, some kind of confusion crosses her face. Ichigo stars back, then sighs in resignation, “well— ”
But she smirks, and folds her arms, the stuff of all things annoying (but also sort of a knee-jerk for her), “oh, poor you, missing me all the time. Did you cry while I was gone?”
“No,” Ichigo says, blushing and teeth mashing.
“That’s alright if you did,” Rukia mellows, a noticeable change in her tone, “I’m trying to take more time off, Ichigo, I'm sorry if I'm not here all the time, and…” That is true, she is entirely new to this, and for a time, has wondered what should change but nothing is very different at all, other than he looks at her more openly, cooks for her, still gets annoyed, but holds her hand when he can —she likes all of it, "...well, you are very patient."
The evening has fully set and the air is chillier, crisp and dry, and even if she isn’t cold, he reaches out to a hamper and offers her one of his sweaters. “It’s clean,” he hisses when she eyes his offer suspiciously. She takes it and drapes it around her shoulders, it smells like him and a pinch of detergent. Beside them, the pot simmers slowly, the smell of cabbage and garlic wafting, it is almost done.
Ichigo fills their bowls and puts extra helpings of cabbage on hers, “make sure you eat all that,” he tells her sharply as if lecturing her.
“Yes, yes, thank you,” she says.
(and then, very briefly, it suddenly crosses her mind: he’s always so very thoughtful, it’s not hard to imagine how he would be as a husband and a father, “oh—”)
Halfway eating, Ichigo notices Rukia squinting at him strangely, then she leans and reaches over to tuck some of his loose hair behind his ear, apropos of absolutely nothing.
“You should tie your hair, it’s getting longer,” she suggests softly, without thinking, “I bet you’ll look better.”
"I- what?” Ichigo stares at her dumbly. His eyes are widening and he’s starting to blush. He doesn’t exactly remember the last time she praised him.
But she doesn’t stop there, she rummages in her sundress pocket and takes out a black hair tie, and asks him, “may I?”
“Uhh?”
Rukia stands up, and goes around the table, behind him. He could smell apples, and then he feels her hands up to his head, his locks in between her fingers, and drawing them together. Ichigo thought nothing much about his hair, it's just a literal beacon for trouble. She makes him a messy bun, tightening and loosening some parts.
"There!" She steps back, “well?”
Ichigo feels a new weight at the back of his head, it is light and seems nice. "You…you like my hair…" he says, slightly aghast, and if she likes his hair this way, he'll probably wear it like this from now on.
"Well…maybe I do," she shrugs, then wheels back to her seat, “Ichigo, I think I’ll stay here for the night, is that okay?”
“As if I can say no, you’re a freeloader.” He totally has spare clothes and a spare bed for her in his apartment, the better one compared to his.
Rukia makes a face at him, and then picks up her chopsticks. They eat in silence after that.
After some time, when they are done, Ichigo peers at her, then glances at the sky, deep black and twinkling and inviting, and asks her, “Rukia, do you think shinigami souls can hop on a plane?”