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mikachii-mayurin · 4 months ago

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Valentine's Day Special

Before the month ends, I might as well post this fanfic I did. Someone in the server headcanons Mayuri is deaf so I gave it a shot. First fanfic post

The dead of night had settled over Seireitei, cloaking everything in silence. Even Mayuri Kurotsuchi—who rarely allowed himself the indulgence of sleep—had succumbed to exhaustion.

But the peace was short-lived.

A flicker of spiritual pressure brushed against his senses, faint but deliberate. Someone had entered his quarters.

His muscles tensed as he instinctively reached for his ear cones on the bedside table—only to curse under his breath when he found them missing. His dressing room. He’d left them there.

Sloppy. How disgraceful.

No time to dwell on his carelessness. His zanpakutō was across the room, too far to grab immediately. He would have to rely on kido, though he had never bothered refining the skill beyond necessity.

Fingers curled, reiatsu crackling, he swiftly turned on the lamp. The dim, golden glow sliced through the darkness, revealing the intruder.

A familiar, grinning intruder.

Urahara Kisuke stood at the foot of his bed, looking entirely at ease for someone who had just broken into a captain’s sleeping quarters. His lips moved—speaking, explaining, joking, who knew?—but the words were lost on Mayuri. He couldn't hear a thing, and he wasn't sure if he wanted to hear his voice.

He glared, irritation spiking through him as he violently signed his displeasure.

"What are you doing here!? It’s the middle of the night! How did you even get inside unnoticed?!"

His movements were sharp, cutting through the air. Too exhausted to bother vocalizing, he let his hands express his mounting frustration.

Urahara blinked, startled, before tilting his head. Slowly—too slowly—he raised his hands and signed in response.

Where are your ear cones?

Urahara’s hands moved carefully, each syllable of the sign deliberate.

Mayuri’s face flushed—not with embarrassment, but with irritation. He had forgotten them. A shameful oversight, the kind he would berate others for making. But exhaustion had dulled his meticulous habits, and now he was caught without them, vulnerable in the presence of someone who never let anything slip past him.

His fingers snapped through the reply, sharp and impatient, the motion jerking as if to brush the question aside.

I wanted a good night’s rest. I decided to leave the ear cones.

He signed the earcone creating a triangle shape on his ear, Urahara’s lips formed a small ‘oh’ as he copied the sign, committing it to memory. Mayuri’s gaze lingered on the way his hands moved—how quickly he absorbed even the smallest details. It was always like this.

Mayuri finally took a proper look at him. Urahara stood in his usual attire, but his hat was missing, an unusual sight. It left his features more exposed, making his expression easier to read—not that Mayuri needed to. He already knew what kind of smug nonsense was lurking behind that sleepy grin.

His eyes flicked past him, landing on a black cloak draped haphazardly over the dresser. A stealth cloak, no doubt. So that’s how he got in unnoticed.

Annoying. At some point he really needs to re-do his security system, make it Urahara-proof.

Mayuri’s gaze lowered to the red paper bag in Urahara’s grasp. The shape of its contents was obscured, but it was small enough to be a box, a container, or maybe something fragile. Whatever it was, Mayuri doubted it was anything simple.

Urahara waved a hand to recapture his attention.

"Then we will have to sign. I hope you do not mind. My sign is not good—I have not used it in a while."

Mayuri scoffed internally. Liar.

Urahara signed slowly, carefully, as if he were handling something delicate. His movements were crisp, exact, lacking the exaggerated gestures of someone overcompensating. He was being cautious.

Mayuri didn’t like it. He didn’t like the way Urahara paid too much attention, how his fingers moved with measured intent, how he held back just enough to avoid mistakes. It was different from the others who signed with him—too different.

Nemu was effortless, her signing a natural extension of herself. It was smooth, fluid, the kind of grace that made it easy for Mayuri to follow without needing to watch too closely. She was precise without hesitation, his preferred conversational partner when he wanted silence without sloppiness.

Akon, on the other hand, was a mess. Sloppy but effective. His signs were animated, his expressions exaggerated to compensate for his mistakes. He often signed too fast, missing key motions, forcing Mayuri to fill in the gaps himself. It was annoying, but tolerable. At least Akon was expressive.

Kenpachi and Yachiru were a different matter entirely. They had no reason to learn, and yet, they did. Terribly.

Kenpachi’s signs were brutal, more like battle maneuvers than actual language. His massive hands made every motion look like an attack, and half the time, he forgot what he was trying to say halfway through. Mayuri found himself constantly correcting him, an exhausting process that only seemed to amuse the man. Surprisingly, he would occasionally form a coherent sentence, and Mayuri, in his usual fashion, would begrudgingly praise him.

Yachiru, on the other hand, signed too fast and too loose, like she was making up words as she went. But she was a fast learner, and her enthusiasm meant that, while her technique was flawed, she rarely made the same mistake twice. She often over-gestured for dramatic effect, and Mayuri suspected she enjoyed watching him react to her nonsense signs.

It was entertaining, at best.

But Urahara was something else entirely.

His signing was neither too stiff nor too exaggerated. It was careful. Measured. Calculated. He signed like a man who understood language as an equation—who knew that a single wrong gesture could change an entire sentence.

At first, his movements were too controlled, too focused on not making mistakes. But as they continued their silent exchange, his pace gradually shifted. He started matching Mayuri’s rhythm, not forcing himself to be perfect, but letting the conversation flow naturally. His fingers moved with more ease, his expressions grew more pronounced—his whole body language softened.

Mayuri, too, noticed that he would loosen up without meaning to.

That was the difference between Urahara and everyone else.

With Nemu, Akon, Kenpachi—there was always a clear dynamic. They signed at his pace, with his expectations. But with Urahara, it became something closer to a dance. An interaction where neither of them dictated the pace, but both adjusted to each other.

Mayuri hated that.

It was too comfortable.

His golden eyes narrowed as he observed the man in front of him.

Urahara was always dangerous when he got too comfortable.

Mayuri sighed and finally gestured, "What brings you here at this hour?" He emphasized ‘hour’—this was an inconvenience.

Urahara smiled apologetically before signing, "Wait."

Reaching into the red bag, he pulled out a small potted plant. He held it out expectantly.

Mayuri frowned but accepted it, scrutinizing the white flowers. Asteraceae family. Not local.

Urahara tapped the side of the pot to get his attention.

"May I sit beside you?"

Mayuri rolled his eyes but shifted over, silently granting permission. Urahara settled in easily, propping a leg up as he prepared to sign again.

“They’re called white snakeroot. From North America.”

Urahara signed the words carefully, pausing slightly before gesturing white and snake, then adding root with a bit of hesitation. Mayuri, watching with mild interest, placed the plant between his legs and signed back with sharper, more precise movements.

“Why did you give it to me?”

Urahara blinked, as if surprised by the question, then looked up in thought, his fingers hovering mid-air before he started signing again. His movements were slow, deliberate. “It’s a… poison?” He frowned and corrected himself. “Poisonous herb. You might like to… take it apart?”

Mayuri narrowed his eyes. “Analyze.” He corrected, signing the word smoothly.

Urahara repeated it, his hands adjusting. “Analyze. That.”

Mayuri sighed. “You’re ridiculous.”

Urahara just grinned, looking far too pleased with himself. Mayuri returned his attention to the plant, fingers brushing lightly against the delicate white petals. There were several stems, meaning he could likely cultivate it further if necessary. He glanced up again.

“How did you get it?”

Urahara opened his mouth to reply but hesitated, instead signing something vague—“I found it.”

Mayuri’s hands moved before Urahara could finish. “Looks like it’s from the world of the living. Did you transfer its soul and reconstruct its appearance, or just replicate the seed?” His movements were faster, curiosity creeping in. Recreating spiritual versions of living plants was a challenge, and Mayuri wanted to know exactly how Urahara managed it.

Urahara winced and held up a hand. “Slower.”

Mayuri huffed and repeated himself, deliberately exaggerating the motions.

Urahara nodded along, then responded, his movements regaining confidence. “I just copied the seed. Grew it in my own place.”

Mayuri smirked. “So even you have trouble converting full organic matter into spirit particles.”

Urahara pouted dramatically. “It’s annoying.”

Mayuri’s smirk widened. “Was the seed an accurate replica?”

“Yeah. Pretty much perfect. Had to get foreign soil, though. Climate was tricky.”

“Did you steal it from another country?”

Urahara snorted but nodded. “Technically, yes. Borrowed.”

Their conversation shifted, Urahara now animatedly signing about his little excursion to the mountains, mouthing words as he went. His facial expressions loosened, making his emotions clearer—lips forming half-spoken words, hands painting the scene in the air.

Mayuri observed him quietly, noticing how his guarded demeanor slipped away when he signed. His expressions became easier to read, his hands moved more fluidly, and for once, he wasn’t hiding behind his usual sly charm.

Urahara mimicked the motion for hiking, but got it slightly wrong.

Mayuri raised a brow and corrected him, demonstrating the proper movement.

Urahara nodded, repeating the motion with a quick grin. “Got it.”

He continued, describing how he’d stumbled onto a farm, saw a man yanking the plant out of the ground, and struck up a conversation about how it was dangerous for livestock.

Mayuri gave him a flat look. “You could have explained all of that in five words.”

Urahara chuckled. “But then I wouldn’t get to see you suffer through my storytelling.”

Mayuri rolled his eyes. “You waste my time.”

Urahara’s grin widened. “And yet, you’re still listening.”

"I hope you enjoy the plant, try to keep it alive."

Urahara playfully signed, his grin teasing, knowing full well that he was toeing the line between jest and provocation. Mayuri’s eyes narrowed, fingers flexing slightly, already offended.

Keep it alive? The sheer audacity.

Mayuri exhaled sharply through his nose, tapping his fingers against the side of the pot. His expression didn’t change, but irritation simmered beneath the surface. He may not flaunt it, but his underground greenhouse would put most botanists to shame. A necessity, really—botany and chemistry went hand in hand. If this plant had potential for experimentation, he’d make sure it thrived long enough to prove its worth.

"Idiot," he signed, deliberately slow, dragging out each motion just to make a point. "You think I wouldn’t be capable of keeping a simple plant alive?"

Urahara let out a silent chuckle, shoulders shaking slightly. His hands moved with exaggerated precision.

"I just thought I'd remind you. Your hobbies are... volatile."

Mayuri scoffed. "That’s because progress requires destruction."

His hands cut through the air with sharp movements, crisp and efficient. "Unlike you, I don’t waste time playing around."

Urahara tilted his head, a slow, smug smile spreading across his face. His fingers danced through the next sentence with ease.

"Oh? And what do you call all of this, then?"

Mayuri stiffened. He hated that expression on him—the one that said he’d already won some invisible game. He set the plant down beside his nightstand, fingers drumming against the ceramic before shifting his glare back to the intruder.

The plant was a curiosity, yes. But it still didn’t explain why Urahara was here.

"Why did you bring this in the middle of the night?"

Urahara hesitated. Just for a moment. His gaze flickered away, hands still at his chest, fingers curled slightly like he was weighing his response.

Mayuri narrowed his eyes. That slight pause—it was telling. Urahara had a reason. He just didn’t want to say it.

The silence stretched for half a beat longer than necessary.

"You could have given this at a decent time." Mayuri signed sharply, his fingers quick and clipped.

Urahara let out an exaggerated sigh, his lips forming a small pout before his hands lifted again.

"Because I wanted to."

Mayuri rolled his eyes so hard his neck nearly hurt.

"You’re being an inconvenience." His signs were deliberately sharp, punctuated by a pointed glare.

Urahara’s posture deflated—a dramatic, exaggerated slump that was painfully familiar. He muttered something under his breath, and Mayuri immediately caught the shift.

His gaze sharpened.

"It’s rude to say something and not sign to a deaf person."

His fingers moved slow, deliberate, just to drive the point home.

Urahara winced, then signed a quick "Sorry" with a sheepish smile—too practiced, too natural.

Mayuri wasn’t convinced in the slightest. But before he could press the issue further, Urahara turned away, rummaging through his bag with an unnecessary amount of enthusiasm. A moment later, he pulled out a small red box and held it out to him.

Mayuri stared at the box, unimpressed. "What is this?"

Urahara’s grin widened.

"Chocolates. Peace offering for disturbing your sleep."

Mayuri arched a brow. Suspicious.

He took the box, turning it in his hands, then cracked it open just enough to see the dark truffles inside. He blinked once.

Then twice.

His stomach twisted slightly.

Slowly, his gaze flickered up to Urahara’s face.

"...Poisonous?"

Urahara sputtered, shaking his head wildly, hands moving in a rapid mess of signs.

"Why would you ask that?!"

He smirked.

"First, a poisonous flower. Second, chocolates."

He signed it lazily, mockingly, just enough to make his point.

Urahara's mouth parted slightly—then, with an exaggerated sigh, he ran a hand through his hair and shook his head. His grin was still there, though, lingering at the edges.

"Paranoid, as always."

Mayuri hummed, popping a chocolate into his mouth.

Dark. Bitter. Around 75% cocoa, he estimated—just the way he liked it.

His stomach twisted again.

"Why are you being nice?"

Mayuri’s golden eyes flicked down to the box of chocolates, as if the answer was hidden somewhere between the glossy packaging and the neat arrangement of sweets. There was nothing there—just empty pleasantries, empty gestures. He lifted his gaze back to Urahara, his expression sharp, unreadable.

"It’s creepy."

He made the sign with deliberate emphasis, his fingers shaping the word like an accusation. Because that’s what it was—unnerving, unnatural. Urahara didn’t do things without reason, didn’t extend kindness without an ulterior motive lurking beneath that lazy grin.

Urahara simply smiled. Not his usual lopsided, teasing smirk—something softer, quieter.

"Do you prefer if I wasn’t nice?"

His hands moved slowly, deliberately, the question feeling weightier than it should have been. It wasn’t a simple tease, nor an attempt to wave off Mayuri’s irritation. He was asking something real.

Their eyes locked. The air between them felt denser, heavier, as if the world itself had stilled to hear the answer.

Mayuri exhaled through his nose, shoulders stiff.

"I prefer if you were honest."

His hands signed the words with an uncharacteristic steadiness, a shift from his usual sharp, impatient movements. There was no room for misinterpretation.

The silence that followed was suffocating.

Urahara didn’t move at first—his fingers hovered, hesitating, something flickering in his gaze. Mayuri knew that look. It was the same one he’d had the day he left the 12th Division, the same one when they met again after decades of separation, the same one whenever he said something without really saying anything at all.

For a man with all the right words, Urahara Kisuke could never quite say what mattered most.

And Mayuri hated that about him.

He was always like this—vague, dishonest, crafty. Always weaving a web of half-truths, always keeping a safe distance. There was always a wall between them. One they had both built. One Mayuri had come to expect, even rely on.

He had once thought himself indifferent to Urahara’s presence, that their rivalry, their antagonism, was nothing more than a remnant of the past. But hatred was too strong a word, and indifference was a lie.

Because he still remembered the times when their walls had lowered, if only briefly.

The nights in the Maggot’s Nest, when there was nothing else to do but talk—not as enemies, not as competitors, just as two people confined to the same cage.

The rare moments where their conversations lacked their usual barbed edges, where they exchanged ideas without the need to outmaneuver the other.

The day Urahara had learned of his deafness and—without hesitation—had asked to be taught how to sign.

He didn’t need to learn. He could have simply spoken, mouthed the words for Mayuri to read. But he had asked anyway. And Mayuri had taught him.

Much to his annoyance, Urahara had picked it up quickly. Not as quickly as Nemu—her signing was precise, fluid, effortless. Not as animated as Akon, whose exaggerated gestures made it easier to understand. But Urahara’s signs had always been careful, meticulous, as if he were handling something delicate.

And now, here he was, signing just as carefully—asking for nothing, giving him gifts with no clear reason.

Mayuri exhaled, tired.

"I’m sorry."

Urahara’s hands moved slower this time, hesitant. He didn’t meet Mayuri’s gaze.

The bitterness curled in Mayuri’s chest before he could stop it.

"You never change." His signs were smaller, restrained. Less like irritation, more like quiet resignation.

"Is it really that hard to be honest?"

Urahara let out a slow breath before answering, his fingers moving with uncharacteristic gentleness.

"When things are better."

He hesitated for only a moment before finishing. His right pointer finger gently on his lips, and spreads to lay it on his left fist.

"I promise."

Liar.

Mayuri shook his head, unimpressed.

"Don’t make promises you don’t intend to keep."

Without waiting for a reply, he put the plant and chocolates aside, placing them next to his nightstand as if they were nothing more than ordinary objects. His hands moved with finality.

"I need to sleep."

That was the closest thing to a dismissal he would give.

Urahara hesitated, then simply nodded. No smile this time.

"Goodnight."

He stood up, gathered his things, and left.

Mayuri’s gaze lingered on the spot where he had sat.

For a brief moment, he reached out, fingers grazing the space, feeling the warmth left behind.

Just as quickly, he withdrew his hand.

"Thank you."

He barely heard his own voice, but he knew Urahara had.

Because at the door, Urahara paused. His body tensed for just a fraction of a second before turning back—and this time, he smiled for real.

"You’re welcome."

And then he was gone.

---

The morning came with the usual routine. There was work to be done, research to continue.

At his lab, Mayuri set about examining the Whitesnake Root. He only plucked a few samples, choosing to replant the rest in his private greenhouse. It was a rare gift, after all.

He sensed a familiar presence behind him.

"Mayuri-sama," Nemu’s calm voice interrupted his thoughts. He turned to her as she held out a red heart-shaped box.

"Happy Valentine’s Day," she said impassiv

#bleach #mayuri kurotsuchi #bleach mayuri #uramayu

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