At the time that I wrote this drabble (5 Aug 2016), BLEACH's 685th installment had just come out, so this is somewhat canon compliant resembling that chapter except branching off from it to its' own storyline with an eventual sequel, Hourglass, to be posted.
Initially posted and submitted for deathberryprompts tumblr's weekly prompt "slow down" on my tumblog. Edited and finalized for postage to AO3/FFnet.
He has lost count of how many heartbeats of his had rapidly gone by as time moves. It beats, skips, thrums, speeds and slows to the sound of her voice. When his heart unexpectedly flutters ( so hard it even surprises him ) like a butterfly fluttering its' heavenly wings briskly and heavily.
"—Ichigo?" Her call snaps him back out of the momentary freeze of time spent in a bewildered state, a thin yet firm smile graces upon his lips.
"I'm fine." It is far from a lie, really. He is fine. Ichigo is happy to be here. It was only that he hasn't known a piece of him could react in such a... soothingly violent manner.
Rukia gives him a few seconds long quizzical look — looking to see if he would spill it or not before retreating her gaze to her desk. She has finished up her day's work of captain duties (which mostly consisted of reports and relaying orders to her division).
Ichigo likes how the overlarge white sleeves slip and hide her hands almost completely whenever Rukia rests her arms at her sides. He nearly voices his thoughts about the haori being too large and that they needed to give her the proper size, then remembers it most likely had belonged to Ukitake-san, and she was wearing it ( for now, perhaps ) in memory of the gentle soul that was the previous captain of the Thirteenth Division.
She bends over to blow out the flickering flame on the candle—incense strong in the air for the first few moments until the scent of royal vanilla settles in. Thick and sweet to his nose. Like her, a thought voices out in his mind. He doesn't correct it because there's no need to. Nought for the denial; only the bare truth both of them knows.
All the scent highlights is the colour of Rukia's soul in the black and white world. Even after she vanishes off into the next room to change into her sleepwear, it is the only colourful thing Ichigo can see in his vision; as if she is the one to bring the candle's fragrance with her as she comes and lays on him, head to his shoulder.
Ichigo rests his chin atop Rukia's head, his free arm curling around her back and he catches the hair strands with his fingers mid-way up.
"Your hair got long," he says barely above a whisper, and he feels the small smile move against the fabric on his chest ( or was she about to speak? ) and her small hand moves to rest atop his abdomen near her nose without much of a word.
Just as he is about to close his eyes while picturing stars of the heavens in the blue skies after minutes of quiet—a small voice wakes him.
"Time goes by too fast- I... It needs to slow down. I hadn't realized how much time exactly has passed until the ceremony—" the ceremony, she says. Not even my ceremony. ( How modest as ever! ) "— wh-, why are you laughing, Ichigo?!"
His heart ripples. Flutters, several times over.
He couldn't help it, or himself at the moment. "For heaven's sake, Rukia... You say that like it wasn't yours!" Corners of his lips twitched as he snorts—tries to keep his inner laughter from getting out of control. She says her share of protests, quick verbal words on what she meant. He knows she could tell he was laughing a bit at the way his chest shakes under her.
Ichigo doesn't see the other gaze upward, only felt the motion of her head tilt up and her hand clutching to the cloth. His eyes stare straight ahead in silence, breathing in and out to be even with the calm atmosphere, eyes slowly inching downward at himself then off to the side like he's trying to avert his gaze.
"...I prefer it this way. It's... better than the time when the world around me seem to change and go on with life, but I wasn't." Rukia's head feels heavier, and he invites it—his heart yearns for the familiar comfort. He gently thumbs through the back of her hair. "It felt like the worst months of my life, and it probably was. This is better than nothing," better than being stuck, being hopeless, being lost, wholly powerless, unable to connect with the one he wanted most, "but, even if time demands that I keep up with the speed of its' rotation now, then I'll fly even higher."
He wishes now he was more aware when exactly she had loosened her clutch and laid the palm of her hand flat. The black hair locks brushes and lays across her cheek, bangs curved like crescent moons hiding her eyes.
"...Fool... I didn't ask for you to spout such things..."
He feels it. The beats of another heart aside his own. The sense of resolve buried in his vision doesn't dissolve until he drifts off to sleep.
The rhythm of their heartbeats waltzes to the song of the ticking clock as they slumber—and it won't be the only time.