Title: Snowfall
Rating: T
Genres: Angst/Romance
Couple: HitsuMatsu

Snowfall
Chapter 1.

His stare was as cold as Winter.

Freezing, Shinigami shivered around him, waiting for the order. Flakes of snow met the soft material of their uniforms, melting. Less than ten minutes ago, the War had ceased, but never would he call that a War. It barely lasted long. To him, it had been a massacre. Very few Shinigami fell victim to death, although death had embraced them once before. Yet it had been chaotic, unorganised, reeking with insanity. A desperate cry for who was right. Violence, however, did not judge the winner. Violence merely judged the weakest, and strongest. A winner did not rise in victory because he knew the ways of the zanpakutō better than another.

A fellow commander approached, for he had not spoken. 'Captain Hitsugaya, it's over.'

If that was so, then why did he feel so tense? Turning, he looked over at Ukitake, before dropping his gaze. It was a miracle the elder Shinigami managed to fight for so long, despite his decreasing health. 'I know,' he said, voice low. Sharp, green eyes searched the frozen hills. Corpses belonging to that of the Quincy scattered the white blanket, snow burying their bodies. 'Has Kuchiki returned?'

'Yes. I commanded her to head back with the rest of the Division.'

'Oh.' Tōshirō fell silent.

'And Matsumoto?'

'No.' He narrowed his brows. 'I can sense her spiritual pressure, but it is very weak.' It was unlikely that Rangiku had gone so far that they could no longer sense each other. Tōshirō believed the worst had happened. Or was going to happen. The field was huge, too far to search for a falling comrade. Although it was her duty to protect his back, Tōshirō made it quite clear he only wanted her to fight, and not worry over him. He saw in her eyes her doubt, her reluctance, a little hint of sadness, but she would never disobey him.

Tōshirō waited. Ukitake stepped forwards, a gesture that he was willing to search for Hitsugaya's Vice-Captain. Yet, to his horror, Tōshirō swivelled around on his heel and walked away. The older Captain didn't know how to respond. They were of the same rank, so it wouldn't be inappropriate of him to scold Tōshirō for giving up on Rangiku like that. Those two had been working together for longer than he and Rukia. Was Hitsugaya so cold he was willing to throw away a past without a thought? Did Matsumoto mean nothing to him?

No, surely not. Ukitake knew Hitsugaya was a cold, stubborn man. To walk away from someone so valuable to him, though? That wasn't cold. That was disloyalty, neglect. 'She's probably still alive, Captain Hitsugaya.'

Tōshirō stopped, and Ukitake studied his expression. Blank. Not even a hint of regret. 'In those few seconds standing beside you, I slowly felt her spirit disappear. Now, I feel nothing. No warmth, no distant heartbeat, nothing.' A pause, but Jūshirō knew what he was going to say next. 'Matsumoto's dead.' To hear these words escape Hitsugaya's lips wasn't right. Ukitake had always thought someone would inform Hitsugaya about her passing, but he never wished something so dreadful be cast upon such a wonderful woman.

'Captain––'

'You'll freeze if you remain out here any longer.' Tōshirō continued his way back. 'I'd hate for you to fall ill, Captain Ukitake.'

What Jūshirō didn't know was the effect. The impact. Hitsugaya had waited, focussed entirely on her reiatsu. Usually, it was so strong, almost burning his skin, and yet, now, he was cold. Still. The man may as well have been stabbed through the chest, it was so sudden, so horrible. Painful. Yet, it was his personal rule to not mourn the dead, to not rush after their ghosts in the hopes they might still be alive. Matsumoto was gone, the snow shall bury her body, and he would continue. A soldier was useless if he pleaded for others, if he needed someone.

No matter how he felt, never would Tōshirō go back for a comrade. Never. It was survival of the fittest. The fittest survived. Eat, or be eaten. Hitsugaya was a dragon, fangs sharp, claws pointing, like daggers. A furious beast, untamed, and hard. As cold as the mountain tops. Even if his heart was close to bursting, Hitsugaya would never allow his emotions to take control. His presence was required elsewhere; a dead body did not need him.

Of course he knew Jūshirō wasn't impressed. Loyalty, to him, was in the most clearest sense. If Rukia's spiritual pressure had begun to fade away, Ukitake would have found her. He was a warm gentleman, who cared. Glancing at him over his shoulder, Tōshirō admired him somewhat, but he knew he would never be warm, never embrace the fire.

For the fire had already died out.

Three Years Later.

Grabbing onto the bar above, Tōshirō lifted himself, before lowering, lifting, lowering, the muscles in his arms tensing, expanding from his movement. For the next seven minutes, his feet never touched the ground, keeping himself in the air, clinging onto the bar. The more he pulled, the faster his heartbeat became, pounding against his ribcage. He inhaled sharply every time he rose, exhaling slowly when relieving himself a little. The man's eyes swerved to the Shinigami beside him, holding a folder.

Dropping to the floor, he wiped a hand through his hair, and looked at him. 'What?'

'Captain Hitsugaya, the Captain-Commander wanted me to remind you that your position for Vice-Captain is still open. It has been for the past three years.'

'I know that.'

'You have been searching for a replacement, haven't you?'

Tōshirō glared at him, before picking up his bottle of water and drinking some. 'I do my work. That's all that matters. So, yes, I have been searching for a replacement, but the majority that are sent my way are not only incompetent but lack character.' The other Shinigami cocked a brow, finding it hypocritical that this man would talk about character. He was so blank. An open space.

'If you're struggling because of––'

'Because of what?' Hitsugaya challenged, approaching the bar. 'Because of Matsumoto's death? Please.' It was impressive how his voice didn't waver or tremble from saying her name. Maybe he didn't mean anything to her. Or, maybe, he was so rotten and cruel, he just wouldn't care anyway. 'She proved her incompetence on the battlefield. Believe me, I am not mourning.'

'Obviously.'

'If you intend to use sarcasm, then I suggest you leave now. Otherwise, I shan't be responsible for my actions.'

At once the Shinigami stopped talking, watching the Captain prepare to lift himself some more. However, just as Tōshirō was about to latch onto the bar, the door opened. In came a man, deep, red hair, tied back. His skin was tanned, tattoos viewable beneath his lose uniform. Tōshirō narrowed his brows. 'Abarai? What are you doing? I thought it was clear I prefer to be alone,' he said, glancing over at the other Shinigami, who took this as an order to leave. As he did so, Renji came forwards, inspecting the white-haired male.

'I'm here to check up on you.'

'Really?' Hitsugaya nodded, sighing. 'I'm touched, but I'm fine. I've become sick of the same question, wondering if I'm all right. Why wouldn't I be?'

'I don't know. It's just been almost four years since––'

'––Since Matsumoto died. I know.' Tōshirō sounded like a robot, a machine, completely unnerved. 'Have you come to inform me anything interesting?' He jumped up, grabbing onto the bar and lifting himself.

Renji shoved a hand into his pocket. 'It's hard to interest you with anything, Captain. The War over the Quincy––'

'That wasn't a War.'

'Whatever. It's been given a name, to go down in history some people say.'

'Uh-Huh.' Tōshirō grunted, lifting himself more roughly. 'Yes, that one time we absolutely crushed the Quincy. What's there to report about that? Each one of them deserved their fate, and this reminder is nothing more than a nuisance.'

'Do you want to know the name or not?'

'No.'

'Right. You'll probably hear it from someone else, anyway.' Renji eyed him, then exhaled. It was a sad image of Hitsugaya. Lately, he had been exercising not to be healthy, but to release something, a tension, a frustration. 'You're exhausted, Captain. You should sleep.'

'I'm fine.'

The Captain was certainly pushing himself. Renji could see his forehead sweating, the pain in his expression when he jarred his teeth. 'You fought well that day. I probably should have said this earlier, but it was impressive how well you managed your zanpakutō. I'm not surprised the Quincy got "crushed" as you put it.' He cocked a brow. 'Yet you walked away feeling nothing.'

Hitsugaya's hands slipped from the bar and his feet slammed to the ground, breaths heavy, chest heaving. Sweat dripped to the floor, and he raised his head to look at Renji. For one split second, everything was revealed, everything. Anguish, despair, sadness, a horrible, ugly anger. One desperate to rip out, and scream at Hell, at the World. At her.

'I should leave you be,' Abarai said, nodding shortly.

Waiting until he had left the room, the door shut firmly, Tōshirō instantly collapsed, trying to catch his breath. In private, there was no point hiding it anymore. Raising his knees, he bowed his head, attempting to stay calm, steady. His mind spun, quick, fast, restless. Both arms were trembling, and his foot repeatedly tapped. Tap, tap, tap, tap. The room slowly decreased in temperature, and ice crawled towards his form, twisting around his legs, like a snake.

Although it had been three years, he still struggled to remove the memory, to forget about her. That was wishful thinking, though. Ridiculous. Pathetic. Tōshirō was more Human than he would ever admit. His emotions were fierce and powerful, but he couldn't let them take control. He couldn't. It was much too late. Standing to his aching feet, Hitsugaya grabbed his water bottle, and left.

In many respects, he did need a Vice-Captain. The office was lonely, empty, lacking something. Even though Hitsugaya was fond of isolation, that didn't mean he worked best in it. Or, more, he required a hand, too much work for one person. Glancing over at the empty desk, he did wonder if he had been harsh on those who could have been his partner. The majority weren't incompetent. In fact, they would most likely do a better job than Rangiku ever had.

Yet they weren't her. Why should that matter, though? No one was like Rangiku, the same as no one was like him or Renji. To look for someone like her completely went against his rule. Lifting his head, he turned to the door when it opened. A familiar face appeared.

'Ah, Ise,' he said.

'Captain Kyōraku wanted to give you these.' As always, Nanao meant no funny business. She were to deliver these reports, then leave. Despite not knowing each other that well, Nanao was one of few people Hitsugaya managed to get along with. Passing him the folder, Tōshirō took it. She hesitated for a second, dark eyes on him. 'How have you been?'

The amount of times he had heard that question. 'Fine,' he replied, more interested in what was inside the folder.

'With all due respect, Captain, you don't look "fine".'

'Maybe so, but I am.' He flicked his eyes up to hers. 'You haven't been well, I know.'

'Excuse me.' Nanao raised a brow. 'Why would you care?' That was crossing the line, but she had crossed the line many times before. Ise was a blunt, yet professional woman. If she didn't like the way Tōshirō was behaving, she wouldn't tell him bluntly, but subtly. It was one of the reasons he found her presence quite tolerable. She was honest.

'I just do.'

It was very clear how she felt. Since her best friend's passing, Nanao had been equally as lonely as he. It was remarkable how much of an effect Matsumoto's company made. As soon as she was gone, so was the brightness in his and her life. Nanao missed her, missed her dearly. Missed her taunts, dumb comments and jokes, and how much she cared. She missed everything about her, Rangiku's flaws and wonderful traits. Her death was one Nanao did not accept well.

'I've been the same,' Ise replied shortly, and made her way out.

'Me too.'

Rarely did Tōshirō let the mask slip. Glancing at him, she watched the Captain continue with work, and her expression softened. He had opened slightly, let her in on his emotions, told her that he secretly felt the same, that he missed Rangiku too. Yet there wasn't anything they could do about it. Nanao might have been more sympathetic if Tōshirō expressed more, if he wasn't so locked away and cold, so dismissive. Never once did he mention Matsumoto's death unless someone brought the topic up.

Only up till now did she realise that the Captain possibly cared. It was hard to tell. She spent the past three years hating him for how he responded. For his nothingness. That, after everything Rangiku had done for him, after everything he had done for her, and everything they had done together, he didn't even shed one tear when she died.

To mourn over ghosts. A waste of time, he once said to her.

And she would never forget.

The stars glared at him that night. Walking home late was something Hitsugaya enjoyed. He liked the cool breeze in his hair, the isolation of the streets and darkness. One might call him miserable for liking these aspects, but, ever since he was a child, Hitsugaya was fond of this time of day. After working for hours, he felt good about himself. Felt like he had achieved something.

Entering his apartment, Tōshirō stripped down to his boxers and switched on the radio. Voices from the speakers were muffled to his ears; he was distracted. After pouring himself a warm mug of tea, Tōshirō approached his bedroom, and his eyes cast towards the wardrobe. Sipping at his drink, he opened one of the doors, inspected the clothing inside. There were a variety of shirts, ties and jeans. Some fancy coats which he hadn't worn in years.

Quickly, he closed the door and exited the bedroom. Many of those clothes were not bought by him. Rangiku had been insistent on buying him clothes, and he thought she may as well. Rangiku spent more time shopping than working anyway, so it made sense. It had been a long time since he received any new clothes, though, or bought himself any. He never thought about doing that sort of thing. Besides, he was quite content with what was inside his wardrobe.

Still, there was an odd sensation which swelled in his stomach whenever he picked out a shirt she bought for him. Or a tie, or trousers. It felt weird. Very weird. The woman who bought him these things was no longer alive.
In many ways, he was tempted to throw these clothes away. Get rid of the memory, what horrible images the clothes gave him.

'––three years since the Frozen War––' Tōshirō switched the radio off at once.

Frozen War. That was what they were calling it. A War. Frozen. Very funny. Hitsugaya scowled. Yes, he had been frozen that time, frozen at the heart, soul and mind. Placing his mug of tea aside, Tōshirō slowly sat down, running a hand through his hair.

His apartment very much reflected his work ethic: cold, unwelcome, organised. There was barely anything in it, aside from a few books, settee and the odd essential equipment. The walls were white, heating off. A lonely place for a lonely man. Yet he didn't care. He didn't notice. Raising himself, the Captain headed to bed, ready to dream.

Scolding hot coffee in hand, Nanao cursed to herself for not looking at the time. For the past four hours, she had been stuck in her latest novel. There were many flaws she spotted in the writing, but, if she looked past those (with difficulty), she actually enjoyed it. Thankfully, her coffee was decaffeinated, so she would sleep without a problem. Placing her novel down, Nanao stood up and closed the curtains in her living room. It was time for bed.

However, she stopped short when the doorbell rang. Rarely did she receive visitors and, in all fairness, she wasn't fond of visitors in the middle of the night. With sheer reluctance, Nanao proceeded for the door, muttering about "there are better times", and opened it.

A pause.

Suddenly, she forgot how to breathe.

The mug dropped from her hand, and smashed, china shattering.

'Rangiku?'