Title: For Old Long Ago
Fandom: Bleach
Characters: Rukia, Ichigo, cameo from Shirosaki in one sentence, "choir"
Prompt: 23: Past
Word Count: 720 words
Rating: PG-13 (to be safe)
Summary: He walks the path of remembrance.
Disclaimer: Don't own. Bleach is Kubo Tite's.
Warning/s: Sexual innuendo. Spoilers to the Soul Society arc. Spoilers to the very first episode. But that probably wouldn't count as a spoiler. :)
Notes: I feel so happy. After a long hiatus and period of writer's block, I've finally written a fic that doesn't suck that much. Kudos to Ryan and Riana who were my inspiration. Of course, the idea came from the shower. By the way, your own interpretations come into this fic. And it's a semi-songfic. Have fun! (1 down, 49 to go)

The dreams came more often now. Every time he'd close his eyes, her dark hair and pretty, pretty eyes would be painted across his eyelids and the only way to dispel the image was to open his eyes. Sometimes, he'd even see the mirage of her in dark corners blanketed in shadows with her hand on the hilt of a snow-white sword. But then he'd blink and she'd be gone.

"Should auld acquaintance be forgot

And never brought to life,"

Ichigo closed his eyes solemnly to the gentle hymn of the choir and let the soft melody brush past his ears. Christmas Eve always did come as the holiday it was for him, luring him into the less-than-obviously elated recesses of his subconscious.

It was the dark-haired woman with a pale face and a sword. Only this time, the sword was blue and normal with no white ribbon. She jumped in from the window and said in a voice that sounded too drawn-out and weary to be normal, "It is near."

"It is near, my ass!" He had all but shouted.

It seemed to him, just now, how tired not only how she sounded but also how she looked.

"Should auld acquaintance be forgot,"

She was wearing a school uniform now, one that would have come from his school a decade ago when he was still a student. A juice box was in her hands and she was busy trying to poke the deformed straw through the bottom.

Ichigo could see himself reach out to take the juice box from her, and poke the straw in the piece of carton for her.

He could hear her voice talking but not understand. He could see her lips moving and (oddly) wanted to touch her. His hand clenched and he recoiled.

"And days of auld lang syne."

She was crying and it was raining and the ricepaper doors took her away.

From him.

"And days of auld lang syne, my dear,"

It was oddly comforting for him to hold her by his side, soft and pliable, no matter how much it was akin to carrying a sack of potatoes. He was grinning, not smirking, and it was directed to her. Her. The dark-haired woman with pretty, pretty eyes but no sword. She was looking away but he could feel her slowing heartbeat, feel her relax to him and feel the soft contours of her stomach under his fingertips.

Ichigo was holding her, yet he wanted so badly to close the gap and touch her.

"And days of auld lang syne,"

There was a lone candle, burning bright and steady in the dark room.

She was small, he realized, her hair barely grazing the tip of his chin, now that he was looming above her with a voice in his head that told him to push her against the wall and have his way with her. Her flushed face and watery eyes were beckoning to him, so badly, so desperately, but before he could do just that her hands were gripping the sides of his face and she was pressed against him, lips desperately moving against his, hands memorizing each curve and dip of his chest.

The night was long and ardent. The fires ignited but not quelled. Illusion was merging with reality in a clash that turned the world upside-down.

There was a lone candle, flickering and dissipating in the dark room.

"Should auld acquaintance be forgot

And days of auld lang syne."

She was lying on the sidewalk with her back propped against the wall, chest heaving and shoulder bleeding. The dark-haired woman with pretty, pretty eyes and a sword drawn. She was smiling despite the pain, coping with the loss. He took the sword, the first bridge between different worlds, and gripped it tight.

And he was bound to her and she to him in a chain that locked around their wrists and refused to let go.

"It is not shinigami. It is Kuchiki…"

"RUKIA!"

The chain was wrapped around his heart and hers, hanging by a thin line pulled taut and threatening to be severed. Ichigo pushed the church doors open, the snow cold and warm and tangible, looking at the silhouette of a woman in the distance and the past that will never walk hand-in-hand with the future.