Disclaimer: I don't own Bleach.
Cherish
What is Rukia to you?
The question came like lightning, or rather, the memory of it did. Despite having been asked by the Sixth Division Lieutenant Abarai Renji more than half a century ago, it still managed to give Tōshirō pause. Although he wasn't sure if it was because, regardless of his eloquence in most situations, he still couldn't manage to cobble an answer that sufficiently conveyed exactly how much he cherished her or if it was because it was her childhood friend that had asked the question. Then again, perhaps it was a mixture of both.
Tōshirō didn't doubt that every high-ranking officer within the 13 Divisions spent decades honing their skills, but Abarai was different. His goal was different. He had done it not for power or influence, not for renown, not even for the sake of it; he'd invested time and blood for nothing more than the chance to stand beside Rukia as an equal. He was her precious childhood friend from the tough streets of South Rukongai's 78th District, and he deserved more than some barely considered string of words from the man that had swooped in and claimed one of the greatest driving forces in his life.
A half-baked response to that question would be detrimental to his relationship with Rukia and to those she cared most for—those he needed, wanted to get along with. Abarai would see right through him anyway. More importantly, Tōshirō would kick himself for not pondering over his words more in the years to come. Soul reapers lived long lives… too long for things like resentment and regret.
So, he did what any sensible man back then would've done.
He closed his eyes, shrugged, and kept his silence.
Abarai—expectedly—tried to throttle him.
Tōshirō wasn't a captain in just name though. That little attempt had ended so poorly that he was sure Abarai still remembered it in the middle of the night when great embarrassments usually haunted people. Much like how he remembered Abarai's question every now and again when he was feeling particularly restless. Although it wasn't embarrassment that had engraved it so deeply into his memory, but rather puzzlement. Yes, he'd been a mix of surprised and mortified by the question when Abarai had asked, but more than that, he was simply baffled by it. Tōshirō was rarely stumped by anything. He hated how, year after year, in spite of all of the time he spent in Rukia's company, he still struggled to construct a good enough answer. He had meant to respond to Abarai sooner—much, much sooner—but days turned into weeks, weeks into months, and months into nothing.
Like every other captain, time getting away from him was a valid excuse. Hell, it was for any seated soul reaper. But when Tōshirō considered the typical standards that he so often held himself to, it wasn't good enough. It wasn't even near the benchmark.
We're already married. Abarai probably doesn't even care about my answer now, he thought, although somehow he doubted it. Responding might cause unnecessary drama... is it worth rehashing the past?
Tōshirō turned his head to look at Rukia, who slept against him. Despite the nature of her sword—and likewise, her soul—everything about her in that moment was warm. She wasn't at all affected by the natural coolness he exuded. If she regulated her body temperature while she was sleeping someway or if she was just so used to the iciness of his presence, he didn't know, but he made a mental note to ask her one of these days. Rukia looked, for lack of a better word, content. Every wrinkle was smoothed over when she slept. While Tōshirō adored her smiles, peace suited her just as well. He wondered if she had this same look of torpid bliss when she lived in Inuzuri. Tōshirō doubted it, but not being able to say so for certain—the way a certain tattooed red-head could—killed him inside. Instead, he had to rely on stories.
Rukia exhaled, just scarcely audible, before snuggling closer.
Between watching her curl so comfortably around him and controlling the faint, unreasonable jealously that speared through his chest, he decided that it would be worth answering Abarai's question. Frankly, he was tired of it plaguing him. If nothing else, it would give him peace of mind. And that was worth so much more than he could ever fathom.
But after all these years, I still don't know what to say.
His feelings for her were so intense that it was hard for him to put into coherent sentences. Tōshirō thought that words of such magnitude would always feel as if they lacked substance. He'd always been the type to do rather than say, and being tacit was one of his strong points. While he'd learned over the years that actions existed to prove words and not sit in place of them, going against his wordless nature was difficult.
Tōshirō turned on his side, so that he was facing Rukia. She shifted in response to his movement, though not by much because he drew closer, so that she wouldn't fall forward onto her stomach from the sudden change in position. Her eyes opened ever so slightly. Tōshirō caught a glimpse of stark violet. His thumb traced her cheek, coaxing her away from the land of dreams so that he could appreciate them in their true glory. Rukia blinked too fast for him to count, and for a moment, her eyes opened in full. Even though they were a bit dazed from slumber, they still managed to shine like too bright stars in the darkness of their room. Rukia smiled crookedly at him.
But the moment passed, her face evened out again, and then she was sleeping once more.
He wasn't at all prepared for the sheer amount of affection that bloomed inside of him at the mere sight of her half-awake and smiling. It bubbled, spilling over and bleeding into his veins to envelope every fiber of his being. Tōshirō's cheeks heated at the remembrance of her grin, and he found himself mimicking it. She couldn't see it, and there was no one around to tell her. Tōshirō wouldn't. The walls would most definitely keep his secret. That would be her penalty for falling asleep when he deliberately woke her. It might've been unfair, but… so was she.
Rukia was the most unfair woman he'd ever had the pleasure of meeting.
She contradicted everything he'd ever known. A graceless Inuzuri street urchin turned noble; a hardworking soul reaper that broke the greatest rule in Soul Society; a body that alternated between the living and the dead to discharge the ice that he so adored. She wasn't someone to be protected like his childhood friend, Momo. Neither was she someone that he was responsible for keeping in line like his Lieutenant, Matsumoto. She was small, but her entire being demanded respect. Tōshirō didn't mind—of course he didn't. He could do respect, especially if the person deserved it.
Rukia could be submissive when the situation called for it. She knew when to be silent and draw back. After being trained in all manners of noble etiquette by servants from the Kuchiki family, compliance was practically instilled into her. But what really interested him was how that training could disappear at the drop of a hat. Unlike so many others, she didn't reel back when he got angry. Instead, she'd match his fury, word for word, breath for breath, until they were both shouting. It wasn't always good. Being with her drained him some days, but Tōshirō was never one to back down from a little hardship. And he loved how, once they grew closer, she had no qualms calling him out whenever she believed that he was making a mistake. Her courage might've sometimes wavered, but her values never did.
She paralleled him in every way that it counted, providing enough contrast that he wasn't stuck with a clone of himself.
What is Rukia to you? Tōshirō heard Abarai's voice in his head. The sound of it was more faded now than it had ever been. He already knew why though.
She was… she was…
Rukia is a pillar, Tōshirō finally settled. He was sure that was a different answer from the one he would've given fifty—even twenty—years ago, but his feelings for her had evolved a lot since then. Someone I can lean on in times of adversity and need. A dock that I can moor myself to after suffering through endless seas. Someone I can hold for warmth in an edgeless expanse of ice.
It was flowery, maybe even a little absurd. He'd be uncomfortable saying anything other than the first sentence out loud, but at least he had found his answer.
She's someone I want by my side, he considered and found that to be—not quite as adequate, but—a good follow-up to his first line. Tōshirō didn't want to voice the rest of his thoughts unless he absolutely had to. Hopefully never while she was within hearing distance.
Suddenly, he was glad that he had decided to wait before answering. He felt like he had more of a right to answer Abarai now that he had a few decades with her under his belt. Where before he was a greenhorn, now he was a specialist. He reveled in the realization.
Tōshirō made a promise to himself to talk to Abarai properly tomorrow because right now…
"Rukia," he murmured, pressing his lips to hers in a brief, but lingering kiss. She stirred, though she didn't rouse. After ruminating for a bit, he was glad for it. Because… "I can't fight your eyes. I never win."
Tōshirō hugged her. They weren't chest-to-chest; Rukia was much smaller than him after his growth spurt. Instead, he cocooned himself around her. As much to keep her safe from the world and its horrors as to tether himself to her, so that she'd remain by his side in the years to come; so that she'd feel loved. He wanted her to feel every ounce of his tender affection, wanted her to feel so treasured that she'd be able to say his name with cheer and absolute delight every time someone asked who her husband was.
Soul Society didn't change much, but it did change. Throughout the coming centuries, Tōshirō swore that he'd be there to love and to care for her. She didn't need his protection, but he'd offer it anyway, and he'd be exultant every time she'd accept it. If nothing else, those things would remain steady truths.
Rukia was his just as much as he was hers. It was simple and infuriatingly complex all at once. But his overactive mind would eventually grow bored if it was one way or the other anyway.
Tōshirō closed his eyes and allowed her soft breaths to lull him into a long and peaceful slumber. Darkness speared across his consciousness like a silent, inky sky. It grew larger to swallow him whole, until even his thoughts of her—as immense as they were—disappeared completely from his mind.
He was content, however, with the knowledge that she'd be there when he awoke. Rukia would be safe and happy in a room that, despite spiraling with his ice-cold spirit energy, still managed to hold some semblance of warmth.
A/N: Fair warning to everyone that reads my writing... I do a lot of narration, especially in my short story collections.
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