Disclaimer: I don't own Bleach.

Quietude

Tōshirō didn't know when the noise began.

It was faint. Nothing more than a backdrop that stood no chance against his stellar concentration. His Granny and Momo eased it every time they spoke, although they never quite got rid of it completely. He asked them about it once when he was younger, only for them to tilt their heads at him in confusion. Momo had even laughed, while ruffling his hair.

You're so silly, Shiro-chan! he recalled her saying.

When he asked Hyōrinmaru while he was in the academy, the dragon gave him a look that made him feel stupid. Tōshirō never brought it up to him again. But his sword was a reflection of his soul, so he at least knew that Hyōrinmaru felt it whenever the issue plagued him.

As he made his way through the ranks in the Tenth Division, the noise began to come in loud, sporadic bursts that would sometimes last weeks. He actually considered it to be some kind of medical condition. But when he went to get a check-up from the Captain of the Fourth Division, she had smiled and kindly asked him to not waste her precious time with something as banal as phantom bells. She had no cure for psychological ailments—not the immediate kind that he sought anyway—and if he wanted one, then he needed to start seeing her regularly and file the necessary paperwork to the first division, so the Captain-Commander could be kept in the loop regarding his condition. He was a genius after all. A prized asset that those on top wanted to keep their eye on.

Tōshirō stopped telling people after that.

It didn't bother him so much that he couldn't live. The sound came and went after all. He considered it to be a special kind of headache that only he had. Tōshirō had always been different, and the ringing did seem to grow louder whenever Matsumoto stumbled into the office, drunk and ready to annoy him.

That's all it is, he thought. A strange headache.

But then his former Captain, Shiba Isshin, disappeared.

There was no relentless tempest of water and wind to hint at the void that would suddenly be left behind, no salty sting digging into the wounds that he suffered from training that day, no outcry of grief as sudden and stark as the ones in the stories that he read about in books, where the comrades of heroes died valiantly on the battlefield. There was only a gentle breeze. As if nothing was wrong. It called out to him, made his head turn for a moment, before he carried on with his paperwork again.

It was when he was informed about it from a sympathetic messenger that the ringing returned with a vengeance. Their office was suddenly filled with so much sorrow and hard anger out of nowhere. Matusmoto didn't drink those first few days. Instead, she'd taken to hanging around the Third Division, where she could revel in the unique solace that only Ichimaru Gin's presence could bring. It left Tōshirō with much needed, albeit unwanted peace.

People died every day. That was just a fact of life—one that he thought he knew well. He couldn't escape the topic after all. When someone passed away, it was gossiped about in the streets of Soul Society by civilians and soul reapers alike. Everyone wanted to know what happened, how, why, and what came next. The Eleventh Division, especially, tossed around the subject of death like nothing.

Courtesy of the Hollows that they hunted, Tōshirō had seen people offed in every fashion imaginable. Quick and effortless, like dual blades slashing diagonally across a man's face. Slow and painful, like poisonous spikes that some Hollows were fortunate enough to have. It blackened lungs and crippled movement, until their enemies were left frothing at the mouth and bleeding through their eyes. Tōshirō had even seen painless through the entrapment of his allies in deep sleeps, so that they dreamt as they were left in a puddle of their own blood.

He'd witnessed death enough to know the exact shades people's skin turned as they lost their vitality, to tell at a glance when it would just be better to kill someone immediately rather than prolong their suffering. Tōshirō could even accurately guess where someone had been sliced based on the loudness of the scream that ripped through their throats. Hardly anything could surprise him anymore. The last time he'd been caught off guard was when members of a team that he was in charge of had their blood painted on the walls in a massacre. Heinous sacrifices to a heinous god.

But never before had it been someone that he was so close to; never before had it been someone that he was sure could mop the floor with him should he ever get serious. Even captains could fall. Tōshirō knew that already. But having the captain of his division vanish without a trace made the ringing explode in his ears. It was a stark reminder of just how easily he could lose those that he cared for if he wasn't strong enough to protect them—and even then, if time and fortune weren't on his side, they'd still be gone from him.

Despite the loudness, Tōshirō still managed to ignore the sound practically making his ears bleed for the sole reason that they were expected to pick up the slack with Captain Shiba gone. Their division needed a new captain, and some of the higher ranking officers knew very well that he had already achieved Bankai. The noise lost to work, until eventually, time turned the ringing into something… well, the word bearable would be rather suspect in accuracy, but the sound did become mild enough for him to forcefully disregard it.

A dozen more instances made it intensify after that. Aizen's betrayal, the appearance of the Espada, Matsumoto's surprise parties, idle days spent in the world of the living. Indolence wasn't something he valued, and the human world was filled with it.

But while Tōshirō might not have known when exactly the noise began, he knew when it ended.

It stopped when—

"What are you doing?"

Tōshirō looked up from where he'd been leaning against his open door, staring at his shoes, to find Rukia in front of him with her hands behind her back and her head tilted in curiosity. She was in a royal purple yukata. Her hair had been tied back with a small, but undoubtedly expensive clip. He was in similar garb, although his yukata was a pale green that offset the starkness of her own.

"Just thinking." He leaned his head against the door, regarding her. Rukia's eyes were alight with barely contained joy. It was contagious, and he found himself fighting a smile. That look in her eyes never failed to make his chest feel close to bursting. He didn't show it though. Tōshirō merely crossed his arms and coolly said, "You look happy."

She laughed. It was a delicate peal of silver to his ears; a blatant contrast to the ringing that had once profaned every waking moment.

"It's been over ten years since I've gone to this festival. I don't know why, but every time it comes around, I have a mission in the human world."

He leaned forward to whisper against her lips. "Let's enjoy it then."

Rukia blushed, but she didn't pull away. On the contrary, her eyes met his and she beamed once more. She rose up to whatever challenge this was—if it could even be called that—by seizing his hand in hers and running forward. Surprised, Tōshirō nearly stumbled over his own two feet. But he managed to gather his bearings at the last second, before he could be completely dragged away by his thrilled girlfriend.

He stared at her small back.

While he knew now, back then, it had taken him almost a full ten months of being in her company to realize why being around her felt so peaceful. She had silenced that lonesome buzzing in his ears. The fear of closeness, and subsequently loss, had given way for a more tender emotion that was still too fledgling to name. But he was, no, they were nurturing that sensation together. They cradled it in their shared hands, and although they might've been a little rough with their handling at times, at the end of the day, they both tended to that strange, growing glacial fire with as much gentleness as they could muster.

Rukia stopped at the mouth of the festival. It was a wide corner where vendors were still setting up their stalls. That those furthest from the center—the ones that most soul reapers would see first—were still preparing showed just how early they were. Rukia turned back to glance at him with a playful little grin that he returned with a much more subdued look, although underneath the surface, he felt no less joyful. He rearranged their hands so that their fingers intertwined. The blush on both of their cheeks was unmistakable. Thankfully, the day was young enough that the festival-goers that he didn't want to see—Matsumoto, Abarai, a dozen more—were nowhere to be found.

"Hurry," she urged. "I want to see the center stalls before the crowds come."

"I doubt they're ready yet."

"I just want to scope out the good ones."

His hand tightened around hers as soon as she started walking. She might've been slow now, but he had no doubt that once she saw something interesting, then she'd race forward without so much as a glance back. Besides, he didn't think he could bear it if the ringing were to return on a night as beautiful as this.

Tōshirō had gotten used to the silence now.

There was no way he'd be able to let her go.

A/N: Please review.