A/N: This is something new I'm trying here. I don't know how long is going to be and I don't know how many people will take interest in it, but I want to try doing this, so... whoever decides to give it a try, be my guest. The song is called 'Heartless' by The Fray and was my inspiration for this story. The text in the italics in the beginning of each chapter is a retelling of Andersen's popular story 'Snow Queen'.

Disclaimer: I don't own Bleach.

Heartless

Part 1

Dead Roses

In the night, I hear 'em talk,

the coldest story ever told

Somewhere far along this road, he lost his soul to a woman so heartless...

The story of the Snow Queen begins with the tale of a hellish magical mirror, designed by the Devil himself to mock and distort the beauties of the world, to crack the sight of the most unbiased ones and mar, disfigure, corrupt all that is good and honest into ugly and abhorrent lies. Enticed by the power of his atrocious creation, Lucifer takes the looking glass and flies with it to heaven to sneer at the angels and God as he shows them their own reflections in a burlesque of what their true, celestial nature actually represents. But as he flies higher and higher into the sky, cutting through the fleecy clouds towards Eden, something goes wrong and the foul invention begins to shake, vacillating madly, screeching in silent, berserk horror as it tastes its own upcoming demise. Before the Devil's own eyes, the mirror shatters to tiny shiny pieces that scatter and spill like limpid water-drops and carried by the wind, shower the Earth in myriads. Some fall in the eyes of ignorant people, disfiguring their image of the world forever – till all that they see is the evil and the ugliness of the world – and others sink into the hearts of their victims, turning what once beat with the warmth of emotion into a cold block of ice.

Ichigo shifts restlessly in his seat, his fingers twitching against the fabric of his trousers as he waits nervously for the interviewer to enter and for what could be the greatest ordeal in his life to begin. The office that he's sitting in is exactly as he imagined it: vast, well-lit, ornate, and soaked with that archaic scent of paper and ink that seems to be the very skeleton of a publishing company's building nowadays. Each element of this room – from the fleecy dark-blue carpet, to the azure walls, the fancy modern-style paintings that hang on the walls and the classically manufactured furniture – is arranged in perfect synchrony with everything else, bestowing a hint of a soft, plush glow to the atmosphere, a rich sort of air that makes the place look both busy and stylish in a bit of an unconventional kind of a way. In fact, as Ichigo absently reaches to trace a timid zigzag pattern across the armrest of the comfortable black chair he's been occupying for the past thirty minutes, he feels an odd, probably rather silly swirl of warmth lay its motherly hand on his chest. He reminds himself to thank Kyouraku for managing to get him a job interview in this place – after all, this is the most successful publishing house in the country, the most impenetrable sphere that a young author could ever hope for, and the mere fact that he's here is a small miracle in itself. For what feels like a millionth time, he tries to remember everything that he knows about 'Dragon''s impressive history, tries to recall details about their innumerable connections and world-wide influence, their greatest successes for the past decade or so, and most of all particularities about the sub-companies that the mighty creature has swallowed – this being two rather popular newspapers and a magazine which Ichigo's fiancée has been collecting for as long as he can remember.

Fiancée.

The word – or rather, the term – has been stuck on his tongue like the aftertaste of overly minty toothpaste for what feels longer than a century, and even as he swallows diligently in some optimistic attempt to remove the vestiges of uneasiness from his mouth, the nasty flavor remains. It doesn't help that he's feeling guilty about his discomfort either – incidentally, it makes it all far worse, far, far worse, turning him into a miserable soon-to-be groom who is realizing he's not ready to be married the moment the big question has left his lips. No matter how many times he goes back and tries to reason himself into believing that he has done the right thing, that what he is doing is the natural development of a long-term relationship, something still just keeps bugging him. Sure, he and Orihime, the notorious Krakura high school sweethearts, the epitome of the perfect couple, the perfect students, the perfect collage pair, the embodiments of perfect, perfect, perfect, are just bound to have the perfect, perfect, perfect engagement and the perfect, perfect, perfect wedding, family, career, (Ichigo swallows)… whimpering, snotty, whiny children... In truth, now that he's made the big step and popped the 'Will you marry me?', laying down the foundations of something so pristine and promising that most grannies would most viciously disembowel any misfortunate soul that tries to interfere (with their live soap opera, you see), Ichigo has realized with a great deal of shock that he's never really taken much of a hard decision in his life. From the day he met Inoue till this very moment, he has hardly spent a day without his girl, glissading down the well-slicked path to the most commercial-ish image of a lifestyle possible, never really taking a moment to pause and hesitate, lest he should come to the conclusion that maybe not everything is as he wants it to be. It's not like he doesn't love his fiancée – he does. She's smart, funny, cute, and so many other amazing qualities that are so rare to find nowadays… And she's absolutely beautiful, too, with her long, strawberry blond hair, full, pouty lips and large, doe eyes that glitter with that childish innocence which is so rarely preserved in the mind and heart of the adults nowadays…

But… But… What if I'm not ready?

Of course, he has no plausible reason for being un-ready… That is about half the problem. If he knew what was wrong, what was holding him back, then maybe, he'd figure out how to fix things, how to stifle this inexplicable anxiety that seems to prod at his throat, chest, palms and knees every time he remembers the commitment he has made… For now he can do nothing but blame his mental state on cold (wedding) feet and the fact that he's currently about to be interviewed for the job of his life.

Behind him, the muffled voices and steps of someone approaching reach his hearing, a bubbling female laughter sneaking between the bleary, grumbling words and phrases of someone else similarly to a sun ray through thunderclouds, and then the handle to the office jiggles insistently before the door is pushed open and the sounds finally blossom in vivacity inside the tastefully designed oval space. Ichigo instantly jumps to his feet, feeling a tad bit ridiculous for being so obviously eager, but he clumsily spins around anyway, a wavering smile forming on his dry lips as he faces the people who have just come in. Much to his dismay, though, the two individuals who are standing on the threshold seem more than a little shocked to see him, a hint of very mild surprise fleeting across the otherwise staid features of the male, while the girl who's with him gasps in a charming wonder, her cautiously manicured hand flying to her glossy lips.

"And who might that be?" the woman's voice resembles a gentle ripple of life on the surface of a cold, mirror-like mountain lake, and the low purr that underlines the tone, so thick and suggestive, has the candidate flushing madly within a trice. Sure, he knows that overall he's an attractive guy – 23 years old, tall, athletic build, gifted with a mop of flashy orange hair that possessed the impressive quality to act like airplane landing light, and chocolate brown eyes, quite strong in colour and just as endless in depth, to soften the effect of the rebellious mane – but even he is fully aware just how out of this girl's league he is. There's something about her… a very strange kind of a radiance that he can't quite define, that seems like a nearly impossible mixture between a Barbie doll and a star from an elite stripper club, the result being a blend of sexual energy, liveliness and sweetness that literally has the carrot-top's throat running dry. Her body is generously endowed, her cleavage rather bluntly put on display in that tiny blouse she's wearing, but somehow he can't find it in himself to dislike such audacity, discovering with surprise that an attitude like this one, in combination with her gleaming blue eyes and the long, wild hair, suit her perfectly. In fact, he'd-…

…And then, Ichigo sees him and for an entire minute the world just stops spinning.

The carrot-top isn't sure what it is about the boy that makes his jaw go slack. It could be the general smallness of this supposedly matured body, the delicacy and the royal exquisiteness in right about everything in the stranger's appearance… It could be the snowy-white hair, so soft and tempting to whoever fool dares to touch it, and yet so strangely rebellious in comparison to the neat attire and the composed, almost too composed demeanor that is etched in those soft features; it could be the smooth milky skin or the pale lips that are now pursed obstinately together… Or it could be those eyes. Just the eyes. If he didn't know any better, if he wasn't standing right here, right now, gawking stupidly at the guy in front of him, Ichigo probably wouldn't have believed just how breath-taking those irises were. Rimmed by a set of heavy black lashes and widened ever so slightly by what is probably a tiny implication of annoyance, the stranger's orbs are an intense, enthralling nuance of turquoise, their surface flashing like glass, no, ice, like a frosted crystal window that repel the curious peeker just as much as it allure him to try and see what is hidden inside, within, beyond… All of a sudden, the carrot-top can't stop himself, he's fidgeting, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, unable to restrain the sudden jolt of incinerating energy that has surged through him in an awkward, maybe too childish manner. Every plan that he's had about this interview has fallen through some crack in the floor and he's lost as to what to do, thrown off the right track and absolutely shocked by whatever incontrollable emotion is now surging through his body.

"I completely forgot." The white-haired boy mutters flatly, one brow arching with excessive slowness as he allows his eyes to run over Ichigo's figure once, informatively. His small, pale hand is still rested on the door-handle and after a moment of hesitation and very, very uncomfortable greeting, the taller male decides to purposefully focus his attention on that one harmless part of the other guy's body, just to keep himself occupied. "Kurosaki, was it?"

"Yes, I've come for the-"

"I know what you've come for." The boy cuts him off sharply, a bit of irritated dissatisfaction flashing beneath the tone, probably as a sign of indignation at the idea that someone might assume he did not know who and why was waiting in… his office? "I'm Hitsugaya Toushiro. The owner of this publishing house."

Yep, Ichigo thinks with a nod of his head, his office.

"Take a seat." Hitsugaya offers coolly, gesturing back to the chair that the other man has just stood up from, and as the carrot-top gingerly obeys, the shorter male makes his way across the room and towards his desk, sitting down himself with an expression that now looks vaguely browned off. "I hope we didn't keep you waiting for too long, Mr. Kurosaki."

"No, not at all." Ichigo croaks out and somewhere from behind his back, a low giggle can be heard along with some shuffling that the candidate can't quite define. For a moment he spots something like a disapproving, almost warning frown on Toushiro's expression – one that he's directing at whatever is happening out of the taller lad's vision - but just seconds later the dashing beauty that has entered along with her boss is standing beside the desk with a vase that holds just one. Single. Red rose.

"Matsumoto, I told you-" the boy begins lowly, wearily, but before he can finish, the woman is arranging the flower (which, as Ichigo realized belatedly, she hasn't been carrying along with her upon entering the room) amidst all the papers on her superior's desk, her smile such a soft, tender shaping of those seductively plump lips, that she kindda reminds the carrot-top of a teenage girl with too many boyfriends and not enough romance.

"Humour me." She utters quietly and Hitsugaya closes his mouth, shaking his head the tiniest bit as though what is going on just can't be helped. The woman glances at the orange-haired guest behind the desk warmly and grins, her lashes fluttering coyly in the process. "Matsumoto Rangiku. Hope to see you around." And with that, and a small conspiratorial wink, she leaves the room, the delicate crimson flower seemingly reaching with desperate petals after her despite the almost warning glare that the white-haired bloke was giving it.

"So, um…" Ichigo finds himself rubbing his palms up and down his thighs in a gesture so obviously uneasy, that he forces his body to freeze all movement the moment he catches himself acting so awfully conspicuous. It's so tempting to do it again, though… And by the way the side of Hitsugaya's mouth twists upwards, teal eyes remaining as lifelessly static as before, he has a feeling the shorter male has seen his candidate's uneasiness and registered it somewhere in the vast library of his bossy brain. "I'm guessing that you want to know more about-"

"Are you married?" the white-haired lad asks suddenly, and the bluntness of the question, lacking even that remotely human tickle that comes with curiosity, has Ichigo pausing in surprise. His brown eyes slip to his own right hand, which is clutching his knee-cap a little too hard, and he blinks owlishly at the thin engagement ring that encircles his fourth finger, denoting a commitment that he's been doubting ever since he's made it. Most men don't really like wearing anything on their hands, he knows, even after proposing to their significant others, but Orihime has insisted, pleading him with those large, velvet orbs to share his promise for loyalty with the world, and the carrot-top hasn't minded or felt uncomfortable doing so… up until this moment, that is. "I don't think I saw this mentioned anywhere in your personal information profile."

"I'm engaged." Ichigo clarifies, smiling crookedly, if a little reluctantly at his interviewer. Hitsugaya's impenetrable eyes lift from where they had been riveted on the austere jewel, to meet the other man's gaze instead, and those thin pale lips jolt up for a moment in something that is probably meant to be a smile, only to fall still like marble again. Against all reason, the taller male has the oddest feeling that he's said something wrong, something inappropriate, because instead of some kind of an interest or approval in his potential boss' expression, he notices an unsteady shadow swirl across the pale features, darkening the otherwise astoundingly beautiful face and giving it a cold, ice crust that downright pains the misfortunate side viewer. Almost like snow… the thought comes unwanted and unsought and crowds Ichigo's head in one single heartbeat, refusing to leave its new home. It always hurts to gaze at freshly fallen snow. "Is-… Is that a problem?"

"No." Hitsugaya replies smoothly, lashes fluttering for merely a second as he adds in a lower, drier voice. "You must think you've got it all figured out."

"Excuse me?" This is definitely not starting as the job interview that he's expected.

"Nothing." The smaller male says, gaze diving as he watches his own slender fingers thrum across the slick surface of his working desk. "Nothing at all. Congratulations."

It doesn't seem like the guy is congratulating him on anything though. It just sounds the same. The same flat, indifferent and empty tone that he's been using ever since he opened his mouth for the first time, the same emotion-devoid voice that has Ichigo swallowing hard, because it all feels terribly wrong, terribly unnatural; the same sparse gestures, tiny reactions, frugal expressions…. And as he continues observing Toushiro for another trice or two, brows furrowed and lips slightly parted in suspicion, the taller man realizes that the sensation that this reserved pale lad ignites in his stomach, however clashing it is with reality, resembles the one a person gets when coming across a sick, fey creature with failing organs and only superficial charm. Everything the boy (because he looks, and feels like a boy, no matter what his age is) says, every sound he produces and every movement he makes, seems somehow calculated, mechanical, as something that Hitsugaya knows he has to do, but isn't aware how to act it out plausibly enough.

"I've read your CV, your papers, recommendations, your short stories, everything you sent." The owner of the publishing house continues, this time more loudly, as though he's making an emphasize on what he's talking about now, in comparison to what he has muttered just a few seconds ago. "Everything is, of course, very neat, very good, very much perfect. But then again, I'd never expect anything else from Kyouraku's protégées." Startlingly intense teal irises lifted towards Ichigo again, scrutinizing him. "But you must know, Mr. Kurosaki, I get a lot of 'perfect' every day. It gets rather tiring sorting through all of them and finding one that stands out as more perfect than the other."

He does sound tired as he says it. Bored, actually, and uncaring. As though what he's working is some everyday gymnastics program that he must go through to keep fit, but would rather skip if he could, in favour of a big bowl of French fries.

"Why should I give you this job?" for the first time there's something more in Hitsugaya's voice, a bit of a taunting, a bit of a challenge, and it's this almost exotic kind of flavor that has the hairs on the back of Ichigo's neck raise because he understands, as odd as it is, that underneath the pinch of colour, there's still a sea of grey bellow. Tons of it, all of which just oscillates with the robotic apathy of a person who is reacting, responding and behaving according to some complex program that turns all the right switches, in all the right moments, to affect all the right electronic parts.

Ichigo swallows.

"I love writing, I've been writing for as long as I can remember. It's the one thing-"

"I've heard this a thousand times." Hitsugaya cuts him off cruelly, leaning back in his chair and letting his mouth twist with the distaste and impatience that more often than not defines the behavior of the modern titans. "I don't give a damn how much writing means to you."

Ichigo is thrown for a loop at those words, his eyes widening ever so slightly at the shock of being cut off in such a careless manner. He tries to collect himself as quickly as possible, but his thoughts have absconded the scenery in fear, and Toushiro's piercing gaze is boring into him like a drill, granting all attempts for a sane response useless and pathetic.

"I-… I don't know what you want me to say…" the carrot-top admits, feeling all the more foolish as the boy's orbs flash glassily at this line. You're wasting my time, those teal pools say, You're wasting my time, and you're not even fun to toy with. Ichigo feels a hot flush rise up his spine, reaching for his neck with long, scalding fingers, and he experiences the sudden urge to pull at his collar and ease his breathing passage a little. He resists, though, knowing in advance how terrible that would look, and tries to concentrate again, one final effort, one final endeavour that-

"We're done."

…-ends nowhere.

"W-what?" Ichigo can't believe it. In the snap of a finger, just like that, he's frittered away the opportunity of his life, he's tricked himself into believing that he has stood a chance in a game that he doesn't even know the rules of, and 'stupid' doesn't even begin to describe how he's feeling right now. His throat runs dry as he open and closes his mouth futilely, seeing a retort, a respond that can help him walk away with at least a little bit of dignity in his hands... He finds nothing. "That's it?"

"That's it." Hitsugaya confirms, leaning back forward to collect the paperwork that has been lying scattered across his desk for God knew how long. The boy doesn't even glance up as he searched for something particular between the pages, his left hand reaching blindly for a pen from the nearest pen cup. "I could say 'We'll call you.' if it's going to make you feel any better, but I think we both know that there'll be no calling."

"Yeah…" Ichigo mutters dejectedly, his chest slumping down as he allows the stress to drain from his system, something like a bittersweet sort of relief cooling up his insides as he gives himself a moment longer to sit in the comfortable chair. Toushiro doesn't seem to mind, already working on something nameless in front of him, scanning through documents and plans that the carrot-top probably couldn't have understood if he tried. As the tension leaves his muscles and his misty mind clears out from the fog that has been keeping every bit of creativity, boldness and knowledge from coming up on the surface, the orange-haired man finally takes a deep breath in and prepares to stand up. Something makes him pause though… A thought. A sudden whim that assaults his consciousness and struggles to adapt a shape and form with more vehemence that any idea ever has for a long, long time. Rising slowly from his seat, Ichigo watches with unnecessary fascination as a lock of startlingly white hair falls over the boy's forehead, only to be brushed away by a slender little hand that with its small size and downright royal exquisiteness just doesn't match the calloused behavior of its owner. Licking his lower lip, Ichigo allows a lop-sided smirk to dissipate across his face as he blurts out, recklessly ignoring the potential consequences this action of his could have. "You have very interesting eyes, you know."

This earns him a scoff from Hitsugaya's side, said eyes remaining plastered on what he's doing as he scribbles something across the paper with gusto and just a tad bit of belligerence.

"If this is a way to tickle my ego to get the job, it's really not working."

"I didn't mean it as a compliment." Ichigo points out, and this time this captures the boy's attention, blue-and-green gaze lifting to meet the carrot-top's one as the pen freezes over the document on the desk and all attention is suddenly back on the tall, tan man. "It's like…" he falters, searching for the right words that seem to once again evade him now that he's in the spotlight… But this time it's not only nerves that are troubling him, there's more. More. "…It's like they are not moving at all."

"Oh, they are moving." Toushiro states, unimpressed, flat humour underlining his even tone, but the mechanical smile disappears almost as soon as it has appeared, replaced by a vaguely surprised scowl as his interlocutor shakes his head.

"They are… but they're not. I get the feeling that I'm staring at coloured glass, not-… human eyes." Ichigo lets out a short chuckle, enjoying the first signs of some actual interest that emerge on the smaller lad's face. "This must sound crazy."

"It does." Hitsugaya's frown deepens slightly and he lifts his pen off the desk, twirling it around his tiny white fingers for a moment before beginning to tap rhythmically with its blunt end against the documents that lay underneath. The silence stretches like glue between them: awkwardly long, unpleasantly hard to get rid of, and the carrot-top shifts hesitantly, wondering for a moment whether the other male is actually planning to speak up. The boy's expression remains conveniently blank, however, unreadable, yet somehow less hostile than before, and although Ichigo can tell that the guy's still guarded and uncertain whether this is a good idea or not, something definitely appears to have changed for the better. Another minute, another chunk of wasted time, and then Toushiro straightens in his seat, petite hands tangling together on the desk in front of him as he enquires rather cautiously: "What do you think is the hardest genre to write?"

This time Ichigo doesn't even skip a beat wondering over the question.

"Fairy tales."

Something that could've been interest flashes across Hitsugaya's face, chasing away the last remnants of that inexplicable shade that was settled there not so long ago.

"Favourite book?"

Funny you should ask…

"'Hans Christian Andersen's fairy tales and stories.'"

For a second the boy actually looks startled, shocked by the answer he has received, but this sort of surprise is a dull, stifled version of everything else that the taller male has ever seen. The emotion is there, trying to break through to the surface, but it's almost as though… Toushiro doesn't know how to let it out.

…Or, Ichigo's mind amends in a frighteningly wicked whisper, he has forgotten.

"You're not going to try and impress me with classics?" Hitsugaya trails off, somewhat challengingly, one brow arching idly in the epitome of perfect irony. "'War and Peace'? 'The Grapes of Wrath'? For fuck's sake, 'Gone With the Wind'?"

Ichigo actually laughs at that, the rich sound making the boy's other brow join the first one in something that could've been a question, perhaps even amusement at the fact that the man has dared to produce such an audacious sound when in the presence of a person who can literally paint his future in whatever colour he finds suitable. Somewhere at the back of his mind, the carrot-top realizes that this room has hardly heard anyone express their emotions so openly, the walls haven't been soaked with the life and energy of a vital and vigorous person, they haven't met enough smiles, giggles, jokes, warmth… All they know is the strict and plain aloofness of someone who looks like a child and talks like an old man, the waft of fresh roses that Matsumoto brings every now and then, and maybe the occasional cheer of some newly-hired employee. Nothing more. Nothing less.

"Andersen is classic."

"His stories are for kids." Toushiro argues mildly, but the softness of his voice speaks in contrary to the words.

"His stories are everything but for kids." Ichigo mutters with a genial smile. "His, and Oscar Wilde's tales… they are just written to touch your heart, make you fall in love and then break it."

The carrot-top isn't sure what exactly it is in what he said that causes it, but somewhere deep inside the pair of turquoise eyes, behind the invincible, bulletproof shield that seems to cover their erstwhile shine, something flares for a moment, something battered and banished that has been kept in wrecks for a long, long time. What is this…? He tries to find its fading trail again, but the gleam is so small and insignificant, so far beyond what is palpable, that Ichigo doesn't think that even Hitsugaya has noticed its distanced quiver.

"They are, aren't they?" the boy mumbles to no one in particular, retrieving his hands from the desk only to let them fall limply in his lap. "Good answer."

Ichigo shrugs, unsure whether to say thanks for the praise or just remain quiet. Another silence stretches, this one heavier than the first one, but it breaks faster than the carrot-top has expected as Toushiro lifts his gaze from where it had drifted away to some spot on the wall a moment ago, to survey the other man again.

"I'll see you tomorrow in 8am, Mr. Kurosaki. Now have a nice day." He says staidly and as he leans back over his work once more, obviously planning to continue whatever it was that he had stopped doing a few minutes ago, Ichigo just blinks, not entirely certain he has understood correctly.

"What does that mean?"

"It means I'll give you a job, we'll see how it goes, and if you prove to be worthy, I'll consider transferring you to the newspaper's department. That's what you wanted, right?"

Oh, my- Ichigo is granted speechless, his mouth opening and closing in shock as he tries to comprehend what has just happened... How out of a conversation about books, fairy tales and Andersen, he's suddenly being told he got the job he's been prepared to actually fight for no more than half an hour ago. It just sounds absurd.

"Will you, please, leave my office now? I'm not prepared to endure a scene of unseemly triumph." Hitsugaya states absently, once again refusing to even glance up from the arsenal of documents in front of him. "Go celebrate with your… fiancée. Or something."

"Oh, wow, I-.. Thank you-"

"I said, have a nice day, Mr. Kurosaki. And leave my office." Toushiro cuts him off for a second time, a bit of annoyance peeking through the veil of indifference as he signs something with a gorgeous flourish of his wrist. Before him Ichigo just stands awkwardly and clears his throat in wonder of what to do, but after a moment of contemplation, he decides to just listen and sneak out of the room as quietly as possible. Pausing one last time with his hand on the door-knob, the carrot-top glances at what is now his official boss and bites his lower lip, pondering shortly how all of this is going to turn out in the end…

…Then something else catches his attention and he freezes.

The rose…

…It is completely withered.

Drooping, like a sad, broken human body and facing away from the boy that is still diligently scribbling across his paperwork, the flower is completely lifeless, drained from every bit of its previous freshness and beauty. How is that possible?

Ichigo hurries to leave the room before he can think twice about what he has just seen.