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Happy Ending	By : Ardespuffy Category: Bleach > Yaoi - Male/Male > Hitsugaya/Ichigo Views: 2079 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Bleach, nor the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-Happy Ending
- 2-Teaser
- 3-One
- 4-Two
- 5-Three
- 6-Four
- 7-Five
- 8-Six
- 9-Seven
- 10-Eight
- 11-Nine
- 12-First
- 13-Second
- 14-Third
- 15-Fourth
- 16-Fifth
- 17-Sixth
- 18-Seventh
- 19-Eighth
- 20-Ninth
- 21-Tenth
- 22-Eleventh
- 23-Twelfth
- 12
- 13
- 14
.

"Are you stalling?
"I… don't know. It's pretty sudden."
Yoruichi-sensei rests her chin on her palms, stretching expectantly across the desktop. "How about I give you some time to think this over and you come back to my office with an answer… let's make it, by the end of the week?"
"That would be – " Wait, it's a Wednesday today. Very freakin' generous! " – much appreciated. Thank you, sensei." Toshiro can do little other than bow respectfully, despite his vivid annoyance at the woman's tricks. Guess you don't make academic dean for nothing.
"I will see you then. But I would beg you to consider something, Hitsugaya-taichou." The tinge of pure, unadulterated sarcasm in the tanned woman's voice as she addresses him is not lost on the little prodigy. "That'd be, if you need to think so hard over such a unique opportunity, then maybe you're not the right man to catch it."
Toshiro stops dead in his tracks, a hand already on the doorknob. "Do you mean there are other qualified candidates?"
The professor's disbelieving chuckle sounds somewhat offending. "Of course there are. Don't ever make the mistake to overestimate yourself, taichou."
Here it goes again, the scornful tone. Toshiro briefly considers asking for clarification, but eventually decides against it and takes his leave with merely a nod of acknowledgement.
Damned woman. Even back when she was just his athletic trainer, Shihoin Yoruichi had the peculiar ability to make him feel uncomfortable like no one else could. When Toshiro chose soccer over athletic – he'd been top student in just about every class, so it was only a matter of preference what he was going to be after graduating – the woman had smiled in mockery and made some nasty comment about men who wasted their lives running after a ball just to make easy money. Her low consideration doesn't appear to have altered through the years, Toshiro muses while pacing down the desert hallways of the P.E. department.
He's crossing at the intersection with the Community Medicine division when he hears it.
"Please, cheer up, Kurosaki-san. I trust you know it was not my intention to discourage you."
"I got you perfectly, Ukitake-sensei. That's kind of the point. But please, don't let me interfere with your morning. Sure you've got somewhere to be at this very moment."
A tall, long-haired man in a white gown walks out of a classroom, a somewhat distressed expression on his pale yet attractive face. "Alright. But do not hesitate to come see me if you ever need help, understood?"
The voice coming from inside the classroom is – oh, great! – a very familiar one. Toshiro wrinkles his nose, but cannot help slowing down his pace whilst sliding down the corridor to keep track of the conversation.
"Yeah, I will. Thanks a lot."
The tall man – presumably some medic from the department – moves too quickly for Toshiro to even think of getting out of his way; they bump into each other, the doctor tripping and staggering to find a handhold that Toshiro eventually provides by steadying the other man in his arms.
"Watch out! Are you okay?"
"I – I think so. Sorry." The snowy-haired medic straightens his back, a tiny smile arching thin lips. "A friend of mine teases me all the time about the way I walk. He says I've got two left feet, and that does not apply to dancing only." The man cocks his head to the side, white bangs falling over his gentle brown eyes. "I didn't crush you with my weight, did I?"
Weight? This guy's practically a feather. Toshiro smiles back politely. "Not at all. In fact – "
"Ukitake-sensei? All right ther…"
Ichigo never gets to finish his sentence. Then again, Toshiro's heart skips a beat (or two, or three), so they're just even.
"I am perfectly fine, thank you for your concern, Kurosaki." Blissfully oblivious to the change of atmosphere, the medic straightens his gown and gives both youths a discreet wave goodbye. Or so Toshiro presumes. He's not really paying attention anymore, his entire being drawn to the carrot-top like a moth to the flame.
The first thing he notices about Ichigo is how utterly worn out he looks – that is, before the typical aloof face is set in place to mask most genuine signs of apprehension. That something is troubling him, though, becomes apparent as he saunters toward one of the windows (skilfully avoiding Toshiro's gaze all the while, mind you) and all but slouches down on the sill, his chin rested on the cold marble.
Well, isn't this a pitiful display. For a moment the soccer captain is actually tempted to point it out, the mortifying desolation of the sight he's forced to behold, but that thought is replaced soon enough by a different, even less pleasant urgency. "What the hell is that?"
'Cause it can't be what it looks like. Can't be that Ichigo, Ichigo is really rolling a, is that shit tobacco or…? "What the fuck do you think you're doing?" Casting all reservations aside, Toshiro rushes to peek over the redhead's shoulder to test his theory.
Ichigo stiffens so suddenly it feels like a gelid breeze has begun to flow off his body, blowing between them and chilling everything it touches. "What does it look like to you?"
A sharp crease wrinkles Toshiro's brow as he inhales deeply. "This shit stinks. It's weed, isn't it?" He doesn't pause to wait for an answer. "You – You're rolling a joint in the middle of a soddin' corridor!"
"Three cheers for Captain Obvious."
Okay, that's it. Common youngster stupidity and petty acts of rebellion he can stand – it's really times like these Toshiro loves to mark the age difference between dumb berry and himself – but being addressed in such a condescending tone when he's clearly not the giant asshole here, that shall not pass. The whiz kid outstretches his palm, tapping impatiently his foot on the ground to make a point. "Give it here. I won't have you dealing that crap."
Oddly enough, Ichigo isn't showing the slightest signs of annoyance. His long fingers – those same fingers Toshiro recalls drumming, playing, dancing on his body as to make the best music ever, but, gods, he's not going over that right now – move swiftly to fold the cigarette paper, with smooth, precise gestures that have Toshiro wondering. "Why not?"
"You want the bloody list?" The soccer captain stares agape before realizing Ichigo is not doing a thing to prevent him from speaking. "First, we're indoor, and smoke's forbidden; secondarily, this is the Medicine department and you are a doctor for crying out loud! Thirdly – "
"Tut-tut, genius. You go wrong. Try again." The ginger-head's next words are mumbled around the makeshift cigarette, so Toshiro can bring himself to believe he misheard. "Am not a doctor, nor am I gonna be anytime soon."
"What is this supposed to mean?"
Ichigo takes his sweet time toying with a lighter he produced from his pocket. "You've met Ukitake-sensei, my lab supervisor." He snorts at last, then takes a deep lungful of whatever the fuck is that thing in his cig. "Man's an angel, so I guess that's why the faculty council picked him for the job."
Toshiro is not listening closely; he's all but drinking in each and every word coming out of is mate's mouth. It doesn't help that Ichigo seems to consider speaking godawfully slowly as an amusing way to irk him, though.
"He says if I don't quit slacking off, I'm out of the programme." The carrot-top blurts out eventually, staring through the glass at who-knows-what with a transfixed look on his face. "And if I get kicked out of the programme, all my chances to graduate within the year go flying off the window." Ichigo waves with the hand holding his joint to depict the metaphorical launch in the air, a bitter half-smile stretching his lips. "How does that sound?"
It takes Toshiro several moments to realize his own body is quivering with indignation. "To me, it sounds like you're being a pathetic jerk." The prodigy spits at last, his voice growing thinner as boiling anger rises. Seriously, is this what it's all about? What's had Ichigo looking so downright defeated? It can't be right. Toshiro remembers the redhead ditching even him on occasion to lock himself up in his room and spend the evening bent over some research project or another. Which the soccer captain was never too displeased with, for the record. It used to make him feel proud, what great dedication Ichigo put in his job. "What the hell are you slacking off for to begin with? You've worked hard to get in the damned programme, I – " A puff of smoke whirls before furiously sparkling teal eyes, the foul smell adding up to Toshiro's aggravation. Blinded by outrage, he tugs pretty viciously at the med student's right arm. "Put that fucking fag off and listen to me!"
"I don't have to!" As he struggles to snatch his wrist out of the whiz kid's iron grip, Ichigo lets loose. "Okay? I. Don't. Have. To. Listen to you, or talk to you or even bear your presence any freaking longer." The redhead's efforts to break free cause his half smoked cigarette to drop on the ground. "I'm not kidding, Toshiro, let me go."
"I wanna help! Just… just give me a reason why and I will."
Their eyes meet for what must be the very first time in… well, ages. Since his congratulations party, most likely. Gods, some night that was. Toshiro nibbles on his lower lip in distress, and he hates himself for this, goddamnit, but there's no way he can pretend like Ichigo's gaze (as much as his troubles and just about everything about the guy, really) isn't affecting him.
"Help?" The taller man's eyes narrow as he snorts derisively. "No offence, brain boy, but what would you know of advanced reconstructive surgery that I might not?"
Now Toshiro is aware that his attempts are getting desperate, yet he's not going to give up just yet. "For one, I know how to keep concentrated on my goal and not go lazy on my work." He has the decency to at least bow his head and look vaguely embarrassed while carrying on: "That, and I topped all my general medicine classes."
Mockery sounds loud and clear in the med student's reply. "Right. Please, don't take it bad." Ichigo clicks his tongue before turning on his heels. "Sayonara."
"I'm leaving."
The redhead freezes on the spot. Toshiro takes it he's paying attention. "Just this morning I was offered a two-years-termed signing by a bush league European team. It seems that some talent scout of theirs had heard about me and came to see me play during the Winter Tournament."
His announcement is met with lasting silence. That is, until Ichigo turns just enough to glance at the small prodigy over his shoulder. "Well. Good for you."
Tch. Toshiro is almost sure he heard correctly this time – there undoubtedly was a tinge of hurt in his former lover's voice. "Idiot." He grumbles, more to himself than anything, then crosses his arms over his chest, trying to look perfectly in control of the situation. Fat chance. "Give me a reason to stay and I will."
Alright: with that he's not expecting Ichigo to fall on his knees and beg him to reconsider leaving him behind, but… but… well, that would be sweet. His delusional hopes are crushed the moment Ichigo spins to look him straight in the eye, his brow furrowed aggressively. "I'm giving you nothing, what you do with your life is none of my business." The carrot-top lets out a disbelieving snort. To Toshiro, it feels like being shot with a poisoned dart. "Geez, what were you expecting? I'm risking getting my ass thrown out of the university and all you can do is rubbing how bloody brilliant your future's gonna be in my face. So sorry if I can't sympathize with that!"
The dart is planted right across his heart, and damn him if it doesn't sting like fuck. Toshiro blinks ever so slowly, trying to suppress the sudden urge to be sick all over the floor. His pulse throbs in his temples, making him feel sort of light-headed, as he stumbles clumsily on the right words to say – too bad he trips, falls over and, here, they're bygone, and all that's left are wrong, terribly wrong words. "What about us?"
Damn. Damn, damn, damn. He shouldn't, shouldn't have, shouldn't have said it.
Ichigo stomps heavily toward him. Shouldn't… he… The words are laced with fury and shock and a dull old ache that digs, digs, digs every minute a deeper hole for them to bury all leftovers of friendship, love, trust. "You called off any 'us' that might have been the moment you decided sex alone was no longer enough and that I couldn't possibly have deeper feelings for you either."
Shouldn't… damn.
Ichigo is close, a lot closer than he'd need in order to make a blasted point, if that's what he's trying to achieve. "Which – you know what? You were right, I have not."
His voice sounds metallic, like steel, a steely robotic voice. "Good luck in Europe. See you on some sports newspaper front-page, I guess."
Toshiro bathes in the cold waves of spite radiating off the other's entire persona. One more gust of chilling air and Ichigo is walking away, strolling down the hallway and disappearing, like a dreamland phantom or some cruel trick of the mind. My, that sounds fitting. Was that thing between the two of them ever anything other than some wicked trick his mind had been playing on him? – Toshiro wonders. Whatever the case, it's over now.
The dart stings in his chest, the poison runs in his veins, but there are no more leftovers to bury. They're long gone, Ichigo and himself – no matter how desperate his pursuit may get. They won't be found again.
Toshiro puts off the discarded joint with his heel and heads home without looking back once.

"Well?"
Sojiro is at his throat the exact moment Toshiro kicks the door closed behind him. "Hn?"
The dark-haired youth tugs at the front of his friend's sweatshirt in anticipation. "How did it go?"
Toshiro must assume his brain process was unsettled by the unforeseen tête-à-tête with a certain redhead, because he can't for the life of him understand a word his new flatmate is saying. "What are you on about?"
Here's when Kusaka frowns, looking genuinely lost. "Wasn't your meeting with Shihoin-sensei scheduled for today?"
Oh. Right, that. "Yeah. Yes, it was."
"So? Don't keep me on tenterhooks, or I might just have to coax the words out of you!"
Toshiro walks further into the apartment, Sojiro tailing him. "I guess you could say it went fairly well." The white-haired athlete shrugs nonchalantly while taking off his jacket, which he hangs onto the hallstand. "Some European team or another has offered me a two-years-termed signing. Effective immediately."
A telltale hitch of breath testifies to Sojiro's astonishment. "And you call that going 'fairly well'? This is godawesome news, Toshiro! Congratulations!"
The small captain finds himself in the taller athlete's vice grip, choking for the strength of it. Just as he's about to shove him away Sojiro withdraws on his own accord, a taut crease on his brow. "Wait. I know that look." He objects, then, upon further investigating Toshiro's face, gives a horrified shriek. "You're not considering turning down the offer, are you? !"
Sure enough, Toshiro is considering it. After all, two years is a freaking long time, Europe is ridiculously far away and he's never even played at a professional level before. But none of this would be enough restraint, if only… Sod it. Nothing's holding you back. This is the chance of a lifetime and you're not throwing it away because of some twisted not-quite-relationship that's doomed to failure anyway, his inner talking cricket bitches. And Toshiro figures one can't really argue with subconscious animals.
"Why would I? Of course I'm accepting. Shihoin-sensei will hear from me before the week is over."
- 12
- 13
- 14
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Happy Ending