Characters: Orihime, Ulquiorra (in spirit)
Summary: On Christmas Eve, Orihime contemplates the snow and those who will never see it.
Pairings: UlquiHime
Warnings/Spoilers: Spoilers for Hueco Mundo arc
Timeline: post-Deicide arc
Author's Note: Weird combination, huh? Ulquiorra and snow. It doesn't really seem to go together, but all that means is that this is more likely to be somewhat unique. Pony up with those reviews, okay? It's Christmas.
Disclaimer: I don't own Bleach.
It's night and all the lights are turned off. The only source of light at all is the street lamp from outside, not soft and golden but stark and dim and silver, like a wash of argentine silver over the walls to bleach everything from furniture to a living, breathing human girl to that same shade of silver.
Even Orihime's hair seems dull and tarnished in this dim light, like old, unpolished brass covered in a layer of dust, as she sits on the couch, and stares out the window, silent, heart barely beating. The falling snow flurries cast little prickle polka dots—not, not polka dots, too small to be polka dots—shadows on the opposite wall, the shadows like scattered broken glass on the wall. If Orihime stares hard enough, she can almost imagine the sparkle of broken glass on her living room floor.
But it's not there.
And Orihime is instead feeling like she herself is broken glass. Full of sharp, jagged edges to make everyone who comes near her bleed. Maybe it's just memories working on her flesh to make it feel unwieldy and deadly to her own touch.
Maybe it's just Ulquiorra's memory filling her full of emotions Orihime wishes she didn't have.
For whatever reason, her remembrances of him become more intense during winter. Orihime isn't sure why; she never saw him in winter and Hueco Mundo was a desert place, not a world locked in deep midwinter. Regardless of the logic (or lack of) behind it, winter becomes the Remembering Time and Orihime is left to be plagued and assaulted by memory of sight and smell and sound.
The snow is soft this year, not thick like slush as it was last year, but light, and powdery. Like confectioner's sugar. Orihime can almost believe that if she were to dip her hand onto the windowsill the snow in her hand would taste sweet on her tongue.
Had Ulquiorra ever seen the snow?
Orihime doesn't know why she's asking herself that question, except that he was so deprived of everything that made life worthwhile to most, and she can count every wish he never said on every snowflake, every tear he never shed on every snowflake.
Enough for a mountain of grief and grieving, and another mountain for "what ifs" and chances passed away.
As midnight comes closer, Orihime doesn't think that it's Christmas Eve. She doesn't think that tomorrow will be a day for opening presents and going to visit her friends to make sure they're in the spirit.
She wishes Ulquiorra could have seen the snow. When he didn't understand anything else, she's sure he could have understood the nature of all the white powder gathering on her windowsill. That he might have… appreciated it.
And for all the grief he gave her, before death and afterwards, she wishes he could have seen it with her.