Disclaimer: I don't own the rights.

Plasticity

A Bleach Fanfic

Chapter Two: Daybreak

Izuru wasn't looking at her.

Momo could understand; she didn't really feel all that comfortable looking at him, either.

In the eight months since she woke, they'd moved her from her hospital room in the Fourth to a long-term recovery space. It was usually reserved for those recuperating from organ replacement or the loss of limb, something vital like that.

When she'd asked Isane if she should really be allowed to use it, considering, Isane had told her that just because her wounds weren't right there for everyone to see didn't mean they weren't grave enough to qualify.

The firmness in her tone had left no room for argument; so here she was.

The reason she didn't want to look at Izuru was because it was a little bit like looking into a mirror. His eyes looked so… dead, compared to everyone else's. The same hollowness shone out of him as she imagined must have shone out of her—the yawning chasm of something gone, never to be replaced.

He was a satellite adrift in empty space—just like her—with no sun to orbit anymore.

"I guess… I guess they're really gone, aren't they?"

She wanted to blame Ichimaru. She wanted to.

(He wasn't warm, he wasn't soft. Not like Aizen-taichō. But he had been the center of his own solar system nevertheless.)

But it didn't even matter anymore, whose fault it was. Aizen-taichō wasn't here for her to lean on. And Izuru's pain was a lot like hers. The slump in his shoulders, the circles under his eyes, the too-sharp lines of his face. He was grieving.

And if he was a mirror of her, she was grieving, too.

You couldn't grieve if you hadn't lost anything.

Izuru raised his head a little, meeting her eyes. Slowly, he nodded. "Yeah, Momo. They're really gone."

She pursed her lips.

"I… I loved him. Aizen-taichō. I guess…" She dropped her eyes back to her hands. "I guess everyone probably knew that. I've never been good at hiding things."

She heard a soft scuff as Izuru took a step closer. He pulled in a deep breath; she closed her eyes.

"Some of us did," he admitted. "But we wouldn't—we haven't told everyone else or anything. We always thought… it was up to you, to tell people or not."

He came to a stop in front of the armchair she occupied. There was a rustle of fabric—Momo opened her eyes. He'd knelt to be on a level with her. Slowly, he sat back into seiza, in front of her chair. His throat worked when he swallowed; in the silence, she could hear it.

"That doesn't make you weak, Momo. It just means… that you lost something different than the rest of us lost. Something more."

She pulled her lip between her teeth. "Why can't I get better, Izuru? Why can't I stop thinking of him? I just want to go back to the Fifth, but I know I can't. Everything reminds me of him. Everything I do… everywhere I could go. He was in all of it. I can't…" Her fingers clenched in the fabric at her knees—a plain white kimono provided by the Fourth.

Izuru exhaled; he was close enough that she could feel it on her forearm, through her sleeve. "You don't have to rush this, Momo," he said—so softly she almost didn't hear over the sound of her own heart.

"There's no deadline here. No one expects you to be able to forget or move on so easily."

She shook her head. "My division needs a vice-captain, Izuru. If I just stay here like this—"

"They'll understand," he said, leaning forward slightly.

Only when he placed his hand over hers, carefully easing it away from her knee, did she realize how tightly she'd been holding on. She laced her fingers with his, bowing over halfway.

"I miss him," she whispered. "Does that make me a traitor?"

Izuru rested the palm of his other hand against the back of hers. "No," he said decisively. "No Momo, it doesn't. It just makes you human."

Some days, it felt like all she could do was cry. Momo slumped forward further, sliding off the chair and onto the ground in front of him. She pressed her forehead to his shoulder. "I'm sorry," she mumbled. "Izuru..."

"I'm sorry, too," he replied, gingerly patting her on the back.

"I'm so sorry, Momo."

The tree was ashes, now.

Momo could only stare blankly at it. She felt nothing—not even sadness. Just… empty. He'd taken most of her with him when he left, and what remained had been cried out by now. She moved and spoke still—but it was puppetry, not life.

"I don't know who I am without him," she said, pulling her knees to her chest and draping her arms over them. "That's not… that's not how it's supposed to be, is it?"

Her parents had died several years ago. She'd been sad, very much so—but she hadn't felt like everything in the world had no meaning anymore. She hadn't felt like someone had cut her open and spilled her insides out onto the ground before they sewed her back up.

She hadn't been afraid to go back to her old house, or smell the marigolds in her father's garden.

Maybe it was just because he wasn't dead.

(He was alive somewhere, and as perfect as he'd ever been.)

"No," Tobiume admitted, "but it's how it is."

Momo sighed. "It's so hard," she murmured. "Even trying to remember what's true. I keep asking everyone the same questions, because… I might forget the real answers if I don't." She automatically wanted to deny them, too—deny anything someone said about her captain that wasn't complimentary.

"But you realize that now," Tobiume said. "You didn't before."

Momo shook her head faintly. "I think part of me did. But… I always get distracted. I remember something about him, or how he made me feel, and it's like I go right back to when I first woke up and couldn't make myself believe Renji."

She couldn't make herself believe herself, even.

"If he's that… that deep in my head, what's left if he's not here?"

Tobiume stood, walking over to the remnants of the burned out tree. Looking back over her shoulder, she gestured for Momo to follow. Reluctantly, she stood, wrapping her arms around herself and taking slow steps towards the spot. The wind was still active, but it no longer felt like it was going to pick her up off her feet, at least.

The sky was no lighter, though.

When she drew even with Tobiume, the spirit turned her eyes on the ashes.

"Haven't you ever thought it strange, that part of you was fire?"

"I…" Momo considered it. "I suppose so. But I used to be more…" she grimaced. Bright. Warm.

(A candle against the sun.)

The wind gusted, lifting much of the ash from the ground. It swirled in the air before them, scattering in all directions. The debris dusted her white kimono with grey. When Momo tried to brush it off, it smeared.

"Sometimes, when a forest or some other area becomes overgrown, fire can actually be a healthy thing," Tobiume explained. "It burns away what was twisted and tangled and dense, and the ash fertilizes the ground so that new things can grow in place of the old." The spirit folded her hands into her sleeves.

"You have to decide whether his absence will make way for something new, or just burn you down. That is one thing he does not have the power to choose for you."

Kiyone brought a sense of restless activity with her wherever she went. Right along with the flowers, when she showed up here. Momo wondered, sometimes, if Ukitake-taichō had any left in his gardens at all, or if she'd had to start going somewhere else to find them. Her visits were like clockwork—every single Thursday.

"Good afternoon, Momo!" Kiyone made a beeline for the windowsill where the vase was, changing out the browning blooms from the week before for the new ones, soft pink peonies this time.

Momo actually didn't know a lot about flowers—she'd never been the horticulturalist her father was. But they smelled nice, and looked pretty sitting in the window, and they in no way reminded her of Aizen-taichō.

She liked that about them.

Her eyes fell to her sketchbook, and the lifelike rendering of his face on the page. She grimaced.

"What'cha got there?" Kiyone asked, tilting her head to look at the sketch.

Momo went to snap the book closed, but it was too late. She'd already seen.

"Wow, that's amazing!"

"It is?" Momo's eyes widened, gaze flickering to Kiyone. "But… it's…"

"So?" Kiyone crossed her arms. "You're allowed to care, still. I won't tell anyone."

Momo nodded, but turned the page anyway, smoothing the heel of her hand over the blank sheet. Sometimes, she started out trying to draw something else, but it always became him, no matter what she did. Setting her charcoal stick down, she rubbed at the side of her finger where it had stained her skin. Like ash.

"The SWA had another meeting yesterday," Kiyone went on, flopping gracelessly to the floor with her feet out in front of her. She leaned back on her hands. "Rukia thinks we should ask for a line item on the budget to do to making shihakushō with pockets. Apparently, they're on everything in the living world, even dresses and things."

Kiyone wrinkled her nose on the word 'dresses,' and Momo almost smiled.

"Well… I know I probably can't vote without being there, but that seems like a nice idea to me."

"I thought so, too! Men can just keep things between the layers, but if we touch our chests like that, everyone thinks it's weird!" Kiyone's eyes narrowed with the force of her smile.

Everything about her overflowed. Momo wondered how she could sustain that much energy all the time—it was completely opposite how she felt. The contrast was both soothing and painful all at once.

(He had always been still, calm, sober. Kiyone was the opposite of him in every way. It was harder to think of him when someone like that was around.)

"Kiyone-san?"

She tilted her head to the side. "Yeah?"

Momo swallowed. "Um… you don't have to answer, but… what would you do, if it had been your captain that…" her mouth clicked shut.

She felt terrible when Kiyone's smile faded. The Thirteenth's third seat tipped her feet from side to side, touching her toes together only to bounce them away again. Her eyes stayed there, too, for an uncurling moment.

"I don't know, Momo. I don't think anyone really knows, except the people who've gone through that." She puffed her cheeks, then expelled all the air at once. "I dunno what everyone else is telling you, but… if you wanna cry until you're sick or drink until you can't remember for a while… sometimes, that's what you've gotta do." She looked up, half her smile returning in a wry twist of the lips.

"But I do know one thing. If my captain betrayed Soul Society—betrayed me—I'd go to my sister, and my friends, and spend as much time with them as I could. To remind me of all the good things in the world."

Momo's shoulders slumped. "I don't have a sister," she said slowly. "And I think… I'm afraid I've pushed my friends away." At the very least, she was an imposition on them. A burden.

"Well, that's not true," Kiyone countered immediately. "I'm still your friend, and I bet the others would say the same. As for sisters…" she lifted her shoulders in a shrug. "You can share mine for a while, if you want."

Momo felt something inside her unclench. "I… I don't think it quite works that way, Kiyone-san."

"'Course it does!" Kiyone replied. "It's easy. Isane and me go out together all the time, just to spend time with each other. We don't drink or anything—we just look around for fun stuff to do." She paused a moment, blinking at Momo. "Actually… we were gonna go see the Tanabata festival in the Rukongai this weekend. Do you want to come?"

Momo parted her lips to speak, but no response was immediately forthcoming. She'd… never really considered leaving, in all honesty. Part of her was simply afraid to do so. But it was difficult to imagine anything more benign than a street festival; she remembered Tanabata with her parents and Shiro-chan and his grandmother.

She hadn't attended in decades.

"If… if it's really okay with Isane-san, then… yes. I will go."

Momo turned the shears over and over in her hands. They glinted in the overhead light—the metal had been sharpened and polished to a shine. They had a heaviness to them that Tobiume didn't. But of course, that was only logical—zanpakutō were meant to be effortless for the wielder.

With a soft snikt, she pulled them open. She could feel the grinding of the blades as she closed them again. Momo set them down next to the bathroom sink, sighing and bracing her hands on either side of it. She closed her eyes and pulled in a fortifying breath. It cost her too much effort to lift her head, but she did—opening her eyes before she could second-guess herself again.

She almost didn't recognize the version of herself in the mirror. For nearly eight months, she had not dared to look into one, for fear of what she would find.

It… wasn't as bad as she'd been expecting, but worse than what she'd been hoping for.

Her sleep was still fitful at best; her drawn complexion was evidence enough of that. The unsteady nature of her appetite showed itself in the too-sharp protrusions of her cheekbones. But worst of all was her hair.

It was always so unruly when it was long—impossible to do anything with, except tie it up in a bun. But if she did that, she'd want to wrap it, to keep it tidy.

(It was the one gift he'd ever given her—and it was for her hair. Such a personal thing. Between a captain and his subordinate, it was an overreach.

But he'd never intended for her to think of herself only as his subordinate, had he?

He'd wanted her to worship the ground he walked on.

She had.)

Reaching back, Momo pulled out the tie holding her hair in place at the nape of her neck. It spilled over her neck and shoulders, the ends touching her shoulderblades through the fabric of her kimono. There was nothing particularly extraordinary about it—it was dark brown, not quite straight but not curly, either. In truth, she thought it lank. She didn't mind her appearance, really; she'd spent much more time thinking about training and paperwork than hair and clothes.

But right now, this was important.

Brushing it all over her left shoulder with her hand, she picked up the shears with her right.

She was cutting him out of her life. Cutting away the overgrown branches on her tree. She would throw it all on the pyre in her heart and see what sprang up from the ashes, just like Tobiume said.

Her hand shook when she raised the shears. Biting her lip, Momo closed her eyes and her fingers at the same time. The blades rasped with her breath, slicing the silence in two.

The scissors cut through her hair as easily as paper. Momo was left holding half a foot of who she'd used to be, and looking at someone a little newer in the mirror. Jagged at the edges, raw, hurting. But cutting away what was infected, and beginning to scab over.

She smiled.

"That's a cute haircut, Momo," Kiyone said immediately upon seeing it.

She breezed into Momo's room, a pair of yukata slung over her shoulder and her sister trailing behind at a much more sedate pace.

"Would you like me to even the ends for you?" Isane asked, tipping her head to the side. "I cut Kiyone's hair all the time."

The offer surprised her, but she nodded. "I… couldn't really see in the back," she admitted.

Isane shook her head. "That happens a lot. Don't worry; it won't take long."

Kiyone, setting the yukata down on the bed and reaching for the third one Isane was carrying, jerked her chin at the single chair at the small table Momo had for meals. "Wanna use that?"

"That seems best." Isane pulled it out so Momo could sit.

She did, perching herself on the end of it to make it easier for the other woman to reach her hair without the chair back in the way. Isane ran her fingers through Momo's chopped locks, humming thoughtfully. It felt curiously comforting—the touch was benign in the way Momo associated with most everyone at the Fourth, but without the gloves in between, it was warmer than usual.

Kiyone must have found the shears, because they were in Isane's other hand a moment later. "If I make it all even, it'll be around your chin," Isane said. "Is that okay?"

Momo started to nod, but then realized that might not be a great idea when someone was trying to get her hair to lay right. "Um… that's fine, Isane-san."

"Okay. Hold still for just a couple minutes then."

The rhythmic clicking of the scissors was a mindless sound that didn't remind her of anything. At one point, Isane combed several strands of her hair in front of her face to measure them, then held them between her first two fingers to cut in sure, practiced clips.

"My father used to do this for me, when I was a little girl," Momo said. "Mom was never much good at things like that, but she was an amazing smith."

"What did she make?" Isane asked, taking a step to the left to get at another section of Momo's hair.

"Well, kitchen things, mostly. No weapons in the Rukongai, not even the First District. Some farming implements, too."

"Our mom was in the Kidō Corps," Kiyone said. "She's retired now, though. Dad runs the household stuff."

Momo wondered if maybe Isane and Kiyone were nobles. They didn't act like it, but then—not all of them did. Neither of them was too much like she thought of a noblewoman being, but she supposed there was a kind of inherent gentility about them. Well… about one of them, anyway.

"There," Isane said quietly. "All done." She ruffled Momo's hair a little, to settle everything in place, then stepped back.

"It really is cute," Kiyone confirmed.

Momo half-smiled. "Thank you. I'm… I'm happy with it."

Kiyone grinned. "And a smile, too? Must be our lucky day, Isane!"

Momo felt like it might be hers.

The younger Kotetsu snapped her fingers. "Oh! And we brought you a yukata. We weren't sure if you had one you wanted to wear, so you can borrow one of mine."

Isane was much too tall, but Kiyone might be just about her size. Still…

"I… are you sure?"

"Of course," Isane replied gently. "We're happy to do it."

Momo realized that they'd let her borrow one because there was no way she could accidentally remember him that way. Neither of them had anyway of knowing what would trigger the memories, so they'd chosen something that couldn't. She pressed a hand to her sternum, swallowing thickly.

"…Thank you."

Kiyone gripped her hand and pulled her up off the chair. "Don't say that yet; you still have to pick which one you want!" With a few steps and a dramatic flourish, she led Momo over to the bed, where all of them had been laid out.

Isane's was obviously the dark blue. The other two were a bright yellow with a pink sakura pattern, and a mint green with white chrysanthemums, thicker towards the hem. Momo ran her hand down the side of the yellow one; they were only yukata, but the fabric was soft and smooth.

"Um… which one would you like?" she asked Kiyone; she didn't want to accidentally choose the one the other woman preferred.

Kiyone shrugged. "I really don't care," she said, huffing a laugh. "Trust me. I wouldn't even own these if my parents didn't insist." She paused. "Though it is nice to feel girly sometimes, I guess."

Momo pursed her lips. "Then… I like the green, if you want the yellow?"

"Perfect! Let's put them on; the festival's already started, so it should really be going by the time we get there!"

Momo's first steps away from the Fourth in nearly four years were not as momentous as she'd expected.

Maybe she'd been ready for this for a while now.

The route they took out of the Seireitei neatly avoided the Fifth; Momo breathed a sigh of relief when they made it past the gate without anyone stopping them. Or even noticing, really.

The First District was where she'd grown up; it was familiar to her in the way that childhood was. She breathed deeply of the air, and smelled neither cedar nor steel. Out here, it was just frying food and lamp-oil and incense.

The main road in the district had been lined with little stalls; dangling lanterns in many colors lit the night-darkened street, casting everything she could see into happy blushing pinks and warm oranges. Momo walked slowly, intentionally avoiding large crowds—but with Isane on one side and Kiyone on the other, she felt just insulated enough to be comfortable.

"Okay Momo, what do we do? I've never been to a Tanabata in the Rukongai before, so I'll need your expert advice!" Kiyone was goggling at just about all of it, squirming in place—clearly, she wanted permission to try one of everything.

Isane was much more sedate, but that was normal.

"Oh, um…" Momo tried to think back. "Well, I remember the food always being good. And there are games, sometimes, with prizes."

They passed a takoyaki stand. Momo paused for half a second—apparently plenty of time for Kiyone to notice. She linked their arms at the elbow and walked them over to the vendor.

"Three, please."

The food was far too hot; Kiyone burned her tongue and made a show of fanning it afterwards. "How do people eat this?"

"By not stuffing their faces," Isane replied.

Momo shook her head at the look on Kiyone's face, but she couldn't help smiling. It faded slightly, though; she turned to Isane. "Have you been to one of these before, Isane-san?"

"Once," she said, shrugging her shoulders.

"Isane came to Tanabata a few years ago on a date," Kiyone stage-whispered, leaning in towards Momo. Her takoyaki was still in her other hand. She took a bite, without the dramatics this time—presumably it had cooled.

Her sister rolled her eyes, clearing her throat. "No one wants to hear about that, Kiyone. Honestly." Affectionate frustration—not so unlike a tone Momo used to take with Tōshirō—colored her voice.

"That's not what everyone else says, since it was with Eighth Seat Ogidō." Kiyone's fox-faced grin expanded; her eyes narrowed.

Isane ran a hand down her face.

"Oh, I've heard of him," Momo put in. "Some of the women in the Fifth seemed quite… enthusiastic?"

(She'd only ever been able to think of him, but it hadn't completely drowned her awareness of other people.)

"He's weirdly popular," Kiyone agreed. "I don't get it, myself." She shook her head.

Isane sighed. "He's very nice," she defended. "And modest."

"And boring."

Isane frowned. "That's unkind of you, Kiyone."

"Just admit he bored you to tears, Isane." Kiyone prodded her sister in the ribs, sighing when it got her nothing but a mild frown.

Isane looked like she'd rather be talking about anything else. "He's just not my type," she insisted, and closed her mouth.

Momo decided to rescue her. "Um… that's a fish-catching game!" she blurted, pointing her free hand at the stall in question. "Maybe you could win one for Ukitake-taichō?"

Kiyone's eyes widened; she clapped her hands together. "That's perfect! I can use it to apologize for all the flowers I, uh… borrowed." She broke away from the two of them, half-running, half-skipping up to the stall and speaking excitedly to the elderly woman running it.

"Thank you," Isane said with obvious relief.

"No problem," Momo replied, offering half a smile. "She's… very energetic. I think I never quite knew how much."

With a laugh, Isane shook her head. "She keeps me from taking things too seriously. But I do occasionally have to pay for that."

"Isane, Momo! I caught a fish!"

They'd been walking around for several hours when they were waved down.

"Hey, Hinamori-san! Kotetsu-san!"

Momo heard the voice—was fairly sure she recognized it—but she could not for the life of her see the speaker.

"Oh look; it's Abarai-san and Matsumoto-san." Isane raised a hand to wave at someone across the street—but Momo wasn't tall enough to actually spot the people in question.

"Is it okay if we meet them, or should I make our excuses?" There was nothing at all impatient or judgmental in Isane's voice—she asked it like it was a question she regularly asked her friends or her sister. Like it was perfectly normal to feel overwhelmed in the midst of a few close acquaintances. Like there was nothing to be worried about or ashamed of.

Oddly enough, that made Momo certain she would be all right. "I'd like to see them, actually."

Isane's mouth turned up at the corner, and she dipped her chin. By then, the other group—which included Rukia, who'd called over first—had made it across the street. It looked to be just the three of them, which was for the best; Momo wasn't sure how she'd have felt about a larger set.

"Isane-san. Momo." Renji looked a little surprised to see her there.

Momo couldn't blame him. "Hello, you three," she said quietly.

"Is that a new haircut? It's adorable!" Rangiku reached halfway forward, then paused, tilting her head at Momo.

She nodded. The other vice-captain's hand completed its motion and ruffled her new bob.

"Oh hey! What are you guys doing here? Do you want to get fireworks?" Kiyone, tucking something into her obi, returned just in time to greet the others.

"Sounds fun," Rukia said.

A round of nods from the rest, and they were off towards the vendor of sparklers and other small-scale pyrotechnics. Renji and Isane dropped back to walk a few feet behind; Momo found herself flanked by Kiyone and Rangiku, one arm occupied by each. Rukia, apparently aware of where they needed to go, led the way.

All of them in yukata and not their shihakushō—in the middle of festivities like this—drew no more notice than any other cluster of young friends enjoying the event. None of the sellers she spoke to knew the first thing about her predicament, and none of her friends acted like she was glass; not anymore. They were careful, but no more than they would have been with someone who had suffered a physical wound of some kind. Momo found that, at this juncture, that was exactly what she needed.

She stood under a yellow paper lantern while the others fetched sparklers, head tipped back to stare at the soft glow of it.

(The sun, the center, the core of everything.

But maybe she didn't need to orbit anyone else. Maybe she could just float freely, for a while.

It was a lovely thought.)

"Here you go!" Kiyone handed her an already-lit sparkler, and Momo held it upside down, watching the sparks fly off the end and fizzle out before they hit the ground. The others stood in a circle with her—even Renji, who looked a little perplexed by the obvious joy the little fireworks brought everyone.

Momo grinned at him when one of the sparks jumped to the sleeve of his dark yukata. He jerked back, far too seriously for such a small thing, narrowing his eyes suspiciously. But then he caught her expression and grinned back.

Rukia's face was lit a shade of warm orange by hers; Isane had used some kind of kidō trick to turn hers blue instead.

"Oh, teach me that!" Rangiku waved her own, drawing shapes in the air with the smoke.

By the end, everyone had it—even Renji.

"Why would you just turn yours red? It's already almost red anyway." Rukia's was purple.

"Hey. Red's the best color. And it's not the same as the normal one at all."

"Whatever. I bet you just can't change it that much."

Renji scowled.

Momo laughed.

When she went to write her wish down that night, it didn't take her long to decide what she wanted.

I wish for good soil, and new growth.

Term Dictionary:

Tanabata – 七夕 – "Evening of the Seventh." Also called the Star Festival, the event celebrates the meeting of Orihime (the deity the Bleach character is named after) and Hikoboshi, represented by the stars Vega and Altair. According to legend, the Milky Way separates the lovers, and they are able to meet only once a year (on the seventh day of the seventh lunar month). The date varies on the solar calendar accordingly. One frequent tradition in Japanese celebration of Tanabata is the writing of a wish on small pieces of paper and tying them to bamboo. The wishes are set afloat on a river or burned the next day. So that's what the last two lines reference.

That's it for this one. Momo's not exactly back to fully-functioning yet, but she's making a lot of progress, and will be back at the Fifth in time for my version of the Winter War.

As always, feedback is much appreciated; I don't actually have the faintest idea what I'm doing, so it's good to have a bit of help with the steering. ^_^;