Disclaimer: I don't own Bleach.


Beginning


To Tōshirō, the scariest part about death wasn't the finality of it, but rather how instantaneous it could be. Stale, unsuspecting terror would be captured in the unfortunate soul's eyes until the final vestiges of their light floated up into Soul Society. He'd seen it happen time and time again during his long years as a Soul Reaper, and he knew he'd have to suffer through many similar sights in the centuries to come. He was prepared for it—as prepared as a growing man navigating a sea of gore could be anyway. What he wasn't prepared for was seeing such a similar sight in the eyes of someone that hadn't lost anyone… not really.

Death came in many shapes and forms. That lesson was hammered into him like nails in a coffin the day Kurosaki Ichigo lost his powers. Tōshirō caught a glimpse of Rukia as she stared at the stately double doors that led into her division. There was something about the listless look in her eyes that reminded him of Momo when Aizen betrayed them. It was so unnervingly similar that he felt like barbed vines had suddenly sprung up from whatever abyss they'd been hiding from to clench around his heart. Tōshirō actually had to rub that blighted spot on his chest to ease the pressure building there.

He watched from the distance as Rukia stood, one hand poised over the door in hesitance. Like she was wondering what kind of face she should show the people that cared for her. Like she was reliving a time in her life that wasn't filled with such—silence and stark, angry grief from something she should've been prepared for.

She doesn't have to put on a brave face, Tōshirō thought. He might've looked like a child, but the number of years he had behind him made him anything but. Lying and saying she's alright isn't necessary. I'm sure they're just happy she's still here.

On the contrary, they'd probably appreciate her shouting and moping like a wounded rabbit in a room. At least they'd know that she was sincerely processing her feelings. Losing someone precious—even if they weren't gone completely—hurt.

Tōshirō saw that pain etched clearly on her face.

For the briefest of instances, Rukia closed her eyes as if trying to shut away the immeasurable ache from her being. Tōshirō didn't know her well. He knew factual details that other Captains did, but on a personal level, they were acquaintances at best. But after seeing her brow furrow in hurt that he was all too familiar with, he closed the distance between them before he even realized what he was doing. All it took was one flash step. In the span of half a breath, he stood before her.

To her credit, she didn't stumble back. Her head merely snapped up. Cautious, even outside of the division she called home. Seconds of silence stretched between them. They blended into the eternity that they shared. It wasn't entirely uncomfortable. There was no hostility in her gaze. Nothing in her body language that indicated that he was an unwelcome presence.

"Captain Hitsugaya," she greeted, her voice was gravel-rough. There was a bareness in her tone that didn't sit well with him. "What are you doing here?"

"Kurosaki," Tōshirō began, and he had the misfortune of seeing her flinch. If this had come from her childhood friend, Abarai, he didn't think the name would sting her as much… but Abarai wasn't there now. "Did you see him?"

Did you get to say goodbye? were the unspoken words.

"Yes," she said, strained.

Tōshirō didn't ask if she was okay; he knew the answer to that already. He didn't ask her what she planned on doing and he didn't offer her advice for moving on. She wasn't a child, and he wasn't some all-knowing guide that could offer amazing advice during times like this anyway. He'd leave that to her brother, her captain, or other people closer to her that could offer a more profound perspective.

What Tōshirō was though was a fellow soul reaper. One whose dear friend had gone through a situation, well, not quite like this one, but similar nevertheless.

All soul reapers knew that no matter how hard or painful death was, there was a form of living that came after it. Reaching that after was the tricky part. Acceptance was an elusive thing. But Tōshirō had gone through this once before with Momo, and if that experience had taught him anything, it was this: words could heal just as much as they could cut. Bluntness and delicacy were not mutually exclusive. He could be straightforward without poking at wounds still too raw to touch.

He seized her wrist that still hovered over the gate of her division to keep her from leaving.

Tōshirō was surprised when Rukia's eyes hardened at the sudden touch. There was no shock about her, only a warning glance that told him that if he didn't remove his hand within the next five seconds, she'd do it himself.

Rukia was a force to be reckoned with, he'd give her that.

But all of her resistance evaporated as soon as he spoke.

"Tell me about him," Tōshirō said, voice as steady as the ground they stood upon, "about Kurosaki… I never heard about the time you spent with him before. What made him so worthy to you?"

Rukia faltered.

Her mouth opened and closed twice, but no sound emerged.

For an instant, something tense built up in the quiet between them. It felt almost as heavy as the sinister energy of an Espada. It was so suffocating that his shoulders cramped. Tōshirō resisted the urge to roll them.

Rukia faced him properly now. He was shocked to see her lips half-quirked in curiosity. At first, she looked at him like she was staring at some puzzling, foreign object from the land of the living. Tōshirō witnessed the moment it turned into something else entirely. Something too bright for words, as if she was in the presence of a shining star. She trapped him in her gaze. Glinting, purple shards of ice bathed in moonlight.

"You want to know about Ichigo?" she repeated slowly, almost as if she'd never been asked about the months she spent living under his roof before; about the reason why he'd become so mind-bogglingly dear to her in so short a time.

"I do."

His affirmation was followed by a laugh. A loud, sudden laugh that brightened not only her expression, but her entire demeanor. It was a good sound, no, a great sound.

"He's a fool," she said, smiling in a way that made his chest stutter with unmanageable heat. "What else do you want to know?"

Tōshirō listened to her for a long time in the hopes that he could hear that laugh again.


A/N: Please review.