Title: Frozen nostalgia
Series: 50scenes Prompt Table No.2 (#009-Her)
Author: HeukYa
Genre: Romance/Angst
Rating: G
Pairing: Kurosaki Ichigo x Hitsugaya Toushirou
Disclaimer: Bleach sovereigns over me, not the other way round.
Distribution: Fanfiction and LJ
Summary: The last string that had been so fragilely reconnected is cut. Bittersweet reminiscence encases him. Until-
Spoilers: Smallest ever for Soul Society Arc
Warning: An implied character death. Shitty writing T.T

-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-IchiHitsu-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

Author's Note:

Waraji is the straw-woven shoes the shinigamis wear in Bleach.

This is as nice as I get to Momo. I almost left the explanation out for the AN but inserted it at the last minute.

I had to stop halfway through this because of something and then continued it again later -- a bad mistake. I completely lost it and had so much trouble with the ending. It's not really good... (sobs)

Frozen nostalgia by HeukYa

The dreary grey that envelopes Soul Society is unshakable, adamant on soaking the slowly moving figure in its gloominess. The strides are surprisingly firm, compared to its dragging sluggishness. Moist-heavy air stirs around the shinigami, an uncaring wind trying to lure him into its feather-light dance, but he simply walks on, not even batting his eyelashes at the glacial breeze that has stolen all the humidity from his sparkling yet blank eyes.

The waraji-clad feet move of their own accord, treading the familiar route automatically even without the conscious instruction from their owner, for the said owner is currently incapable of such an order. In a moment that the shinigami does not realise, the ground has changed from flat, grey pavers to straight-lined, polished woods and his brain sends belated signal that he should have taken off the sandals before entering his empty quarters with only half a mind to register his arrival at the destination. When the deadpan orbs slowly look back, they catch wet, muddy footprints on the otherwise spotless floor.

The eyebrows knit only by an inch unlike the usual deep creases and with an impassive sigh, he turns and heads back to the front door. The flat palm of a small hand is first to reach the cold ligneous strips crammed to each other, followed by the shinigami, sitting down gracefully and soundlessly just like any other time. The long zanpaktou rubs against his back, the sheath digging into his shoulder as he crouches at the edge, hunched over to reach the woven shoes, but there is no hint of discomfort as the fingers nimbly and methodically work around the straps. Then suddenly, there is an unexpected voice just next to his ears, the gentle chiding soft and warm.

'Mou, Shiro-chan. I told you not to leave them all thrown about. If your feet weren't so small compared to others, you would've lost them so many times by now!'

'Shut up! Don't call me Shiro-chan and who says my shoes are the size of a midget?!'

The echoes of playfully teasing chuckles flits by him, the ghostly sounds more elusive than silvery mist over the lake in the cool early morning. He turns his head a little but all he sees is a bland, white wall staring back at him in its stern emptiness. There is not even a sigh from the shinigami. He merely takes his feet out of the waraji, stands up, and turns around, heading back the way he had previously gone halfway.

Nothing seems to exist in the premises. If anything ever does, it is only the unbreakable silence, the vast space strangely empty of anything and everything. The familiar choking sadness that such silence carries is more than just impalpable; it simply is not there as if even the simplest accompaniment of the atmosphere is too much.

Having reached the bedroom, he inclines his head a little to ease the departure of his zanpaktou while his feet continues to carry him into the next destination that turns out to be the bathroom. It cannot be said for sure whether the actions are of his conscience or of his subconscious as the routine is a daily one once he relieves himself of duty but it does not matter either way as the same voices float through his numb mind again, this time, in reversed order.

'O, oi! Stop pushing me in!'

'Well, I'm going to do the laundry now so unless you want to do it yourself, be a good boy and take a bath now and give me your yukata! I've already laid out another clean one for you!'

The shinigami jerks forward slightly as if the imaginary, light-hearted push is real on his back but this time, he does not turn around to confront what the logical part of him knows to be void air. Instead, he only gazes at the pair of tabi covering his feet for a moment, standing in the middle of the stagnant, quiet room.

It is only a few seconds before one by one, the white and black garments are shed, all of them heading for the basket in the corner. On one of the shelves is a neatly folded set of shihakushou and a haori, already waiting for him. The stoic turquoise eyes bend an equally stoic gaze on them only for a flitting moment and the shinigami is soon walking into the bathroom, his hands empty just like the rest of the house.

The tub is a generous size for a single occupant but not something that would be labelled as big and in less than a handful of minutes, it is brimming with warmly inviting water, silvery steams rising from the surface. The only noise is the feeble splash of water against the high-ends of the bath as the shinigami lowers himself into what he is so intimately linked with, the speed not any faster nor any slower than usual.

The scorching caresses of the water are almost painfully stinging from his neck all the way down to the tips of his toes. Indifferent to the sensation, he topples his head back, flexing his fingers as they curl and stretch against the supple resistance that swirls around each of the digits. The feeling is soothing and comfortable. Or at least, it should have been. He is not entirely sure if that is what he perceives at the moment. In fact, he is not sure if he perceives anything at the moment.

'Shiro-chan, don't fall asleep in the bath!'

'Of course not! What on earth gave you the idea that I'm sleeping in a water-filled bath out of all places?!'

Small bubbles rise to the surface of the water and vanish in almost inaudible pops as the snow-crowned head creeps down the slanted edge of the bath, submerging under the rippling pool. The prickly sensation assaults his lips, his cheeks, his closed eyelids and his forehead. The white tendrils sway eerily in the soft current of the stagnant water, undetectable by naked eyes from outside if not for the drowned mane.

The darkness, the warmth, the silence. The combination of absoluteness is pressing but at the same time, strangely comforting. And relaxing his entire body, he allows himself to be submitted to the utter stillness as scenes, too many to be counted, flashes in a ceaseless sequence, perhaps behind his eyelids, perhaps somewhere inside his mind.

'Shiro-chan, let's eat watermelon!'

'Shiro-chan, you look so cute in the academy uniform!'

'Congratulation, Hitsugaya-kun! You really are a genius!'

'Hitsugaya-kun, can you help me with my training?'

'…I… I don't know… what to believe any more… Shiro-chan…'

Some lack sound. Some lack colour.

Some lack background. Some lack the people.

Some lack reality. Some lack in what would be helpful distortion.

And in midst of the flickering images, comes the lack of the sense of time.

It was not supposed to have been the end of those memories. It was supposed to have only been another new beginning. With the girl awaken from the distorted hypnotism at last, with all the days and weeks he had spent with her, helping her back on her two feet, it was going to be the biggest turnabout in their history since becoming shinigamis, and a nice one, too; the hope had returned, the liveliness along with it.

When his sister, reinstated as the acting captain of the fifth division, left Soul Society leading a team with the old sweet smile and clear, sparkling dark brown eyes, he had not imagined that it would become the moment of cruelly severing the strings they had only just started weaving together again after too long of an unwanted break.

Another group of bubbles travel up the unmoving water. Pop, pop, pop; as soon as they reach the end of the wetness, they disappear into nothingness, merging into the fog-filled air.

But the clogged, opaque air seems different. It is no longer soothing and smooth; sharp and cutting describes it better. The atmosphere is swiftly losing all the sizzling warmth. The hot, swirling steams have now turned into cold, glacial precipitations.

The surface of the water in the tub is still; utterly, completely, perfectly still -- and is solid. What had once been carelessly free, only contained by the rectangular wooden frame, has, in an unknown moment, been imprisoned in its own transformation. And it is getting thicker and thicker and thicker.

And for the submerged shinigami, there is nothing but the paralysed timelessness, the world anaesthetised by the chaotically deadened mind.

Until-

"Toushirou!!"

Crash.

What the tightly clenched fist smashes is not only the densely frozen cover but the consciousness that had been lost in the bittersweet reminiscence and even before the teal orbs that have shot wide open have chance to recognise the intruder, the shinigami finds himself gripped, held, embraced, cocooned by fire roaring with fierceness that rivals its wish to protect him.

"…Ichigo?"

"I came as soon as I heard… Idiot, what were you thinking?! What were you doing?!"

The white eyebrows knit and the emerald jewels glistening surreally blink in clear perplexity. Two lean arms come around the broad chest, patting the back lightly and somewhat awkwardly as if the boy did not know what the fuss was about, and the taller one pulls away, the face contorted in sheer devastation.

"Toushirou… Did you… not know what you were doing?"

"…What…"

Then he stops when around the waistline, he feels something colliding chillingly against his skin. But before he can look down, one of the arms so firmly holding him is already on its way and up with it comes a cracked shard of distorting ice that has drifted across to its creator now brought out of the lost subconscious.

"…I… didn't know."

"…Toushirou…"

"…But you'd come… wouldn't you?"

The unexpected question has the hazel orbs staring before narrowing in sadness mirroring what the boy seems to be too numbed to consciously acknowledge its true magnitude. Thin sheets of moisture are draped over the seagreen eyes shimmering like find diamond dusts and while the cold face is dripping wet with water running down the delicate curvatures from the white locks, the orange-haired one knows and presses the frozen body against his scorching one, his burning reiatsu tenderly surrounding the arctic one filling the entire room.

"…Of course, Toushirou. I'd always come for you. Always."