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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
- 15
- 16
- 17
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Warm fabric wrinkled under his skin. Sweat. His own legs, spread gently but firmly. Kissing. A sharp tug on his orange hair, more kissing. A tongue, ever so gentle.
Then the urge. To flip them over. He does just that. Lying flat on the belly now, the other. Slick expanse of pearly skin.
The need. Sliding on the mattress to get on all fours. Atop his lover. Straddling. Poking. Clenching narrow hips. Nudging slim legs apart from behind. Pressing. Oh gods, more. Rubbing his tip against the hot wetness between shaky thighs. A moan. A wanton one. Not his own, or so he thinks.
More heat. He thrusts onward. And again. Soft whimpers. And again. A yelp, some shifting. There it is.
There it –
Impossibly hard and thick and unequivocally male, something throbs in his hand as he winds an arm around his partner's middle.

When Ichigo wakes up, he's grinding down hard into the bed sheets, aroused and distraught by the confusing images crowding his sleepy mind. He's got just about the time to acknowledge the pretty large, very damp spot on the front of his oh-so-confining boxers before his awake mind kicks in to claim its due place.
Familiar images start playing at the back of his head then – pictures of swollen breasts and gentle curves, Tatsuki's sharp yet wide hips accommodating under him. By the time Ichigo's hand disappears inside his briefs, pumping erratically the swollen flesh there, habitual, normal fantasies are swirling like feminine, devious clouds about his brain, memories of women he's slept with flooding back before his glassy eyes, leading him on. And when he comes, a barely muffled grunt escaping him, it's his girlfriend's hot emptiness he's thinking of filling up with the white sticky seed.
Not the tight, welcoming ass of the faceless man from his dream.
Goddamnit, this is so not happening to him again.

Toshiro is eating his breakfast when Ichigo walks into the kitchen.
"Mornin'."
"Hey, kid. Ya up already?"
The silver-haired shorty glares at him over his cup of steamy coffee. Actually, he manages to swallow a mouthful of toast at the same time, an ability Ichigo is quite admiring of. "Dun call me that. Besides, I had no choice but to get up early, since it takes me bloody ages to do the simplest things with this – " he tugs at the crutch resting against the back of his seat, supreme annoyance staining his features " – useless piece of trash."
"That useless piece of trash is what's keeping you moving, y'know." Ichigo objects conversationally, moving toward the fridge and opening it to produce a carton of milk. An experimental shake reveals the container's only half full. "Could at least have waited for me to have breakfast, by the way. Ever heard of guest etiquette, kid?" He makes sure to stress the last word so that his very much purposeful attempt at annoying the other doesn't get lost on Toshiro.
"My iron will and a stash of painkillers are what's keeping me moving." The white-haired athlete snorts in contradiction, all the while peeling off the lid of an apricot jam jar. "And why should I care for guest etiquette when you're obviously the worst host that's ever been? You finished all the hot water again last night. Ain't there such thing as a medical ethic code you're supposed to observe in order to call yourself a doctor?"
"Somehow I strongly doubt Hippocrates ever said anything about showering practice." The redhead retorts merrily, then sits down across the sulky footballer, a glass of milk in his right hand, a butter knife in his left one. Snatching the jar out of Toshiro's hold, an action that warrants him the deadliest look in the other's repertoire, Ichigo starts smearing the jam on his toast with nonchalance. "Is it today I'm to drive you to university for that meeting with Shihoin-sensei, by the way?"
Toshiro doesn't reply right away. Even when he does, his voice sounds muffled around a gulp of dark coffee. "The meeting is today, but you needn't drive me. Sojiro is coming to pick me in an hour or so."
Ichigo's brows furrow almost against the boy's will. "Bullshit, I'm heading there anyway. Ukitake-sensei wants my latest report handed by the end of the month."
Teal eyes raise from the plate, a somewhat wary look in them. "There's more than a week till then." The prodigy deadpans quietly, swirling the now mildly lukewarm cup in his hands.
Ichigo finds himself contemplating the minuscule circles and waves creasing the otherwise still surface of the black liquid in the mug. Then Toshiro takes one last sip, and the redhead snaps out of his daydream. "So? The papers have been all ready and double-checked on my desk for days, might as well go deliver 'em this morning." The med student gulps down a bit of toast and stands, hurriedly wiping his jam stained fingers on a napkin. "Call Kusaka back and be ready to leave in twenty minutes." He states with a tone of finality, and before Toshiro can even think of protesting – either for the sudden change in his programs or the unwarranted utilization of his napkin, since Ichigo couldn't seem to reach his own – he scrambles off toward the door and hastily heads upstairs to go change.

Toshiro stiffens visibly when they stop in front of the garage door. "We're taking your car?"
"Sure we are. You wouldn't even fit inside Goat Face's crock with those crutches, and public transport is out of question till you're perfectly healed." Realizing the other boy is no longer on his heels, Ichigo turns around, frowning. "Something the matter?"
The footballer buries his fists in his pockets and keeps quiet. Whatever, Ichigo mentally shrugs it off and pulls the car door open on the driver's side.
Loud enough, a gulp is heard coming from Toshiro's general direction. "I'll have the backseat. More room for my leg, you know."
And Ichigo knows that should ring a bell. An alarm bell at that. But for some reason he just can't – can't put his finger on it, and it's easier to just slide on the driver's seat and start the engine, fighting the instinct screaming for him to open the backdoor and help the limping boy inside. "Suit yourself." The carrot-top grumbles as Toshiro finally crawls on the backseat, eyes cast down.
Ichigo can practically feel the small prodigy fidgeting with unease all through the ride.

Okay, about time he faced it: he's reading the same line over and over and over again It's not a good line, either. Sighing in slight exasperation, Ichigo shifts against the armrest and lowers the book onto his lap, visibly too distressed to carry on pretending being interested in reading. "So?" He lets out in a dry scoff at last.
"Mh?"
"Aren't you gonna tell me already?"
Toshiro finally averts his eyes from the TV screen, left eyebrow raised in question. "What are you talking about?"
Oh, please. Ichigo is torn between the urge to snort and smack the prodigy on the back of his head. Eventually he settles for giving a meaningful eyeroll. "Earth to Snow White! Your meeting with Shihoin-sensei, obviously."
The pale boy wriggles to pull a cushion from under his butt. For a moment Ichigo believes the shorty is going to throw it at him and then run away squealing like a girl, but Toshiro just holds the squashy thing in his hand, seemingly unsure of how to use it. "What about it?"
"My, you are dense for a genius. How did it go?" The carrot-top stares with a frown as his friend wraps his arms around the cushion and all but sags against the back of the couch, as to curl up in a tight ball. Ichigo's brow knits in disbelief. What the heck? "You won't tell, huh?" A nonchalant shrug emphasizes his words, despite his inner annoyance. Just why won't Toshiro talk to him? Ichigo feels a surge of hurt spreading from his core, then one of anger as the idiotic contrast between his feelings irritates him. "Fine then. I suppose you might as well go to bed now."
The footballer half snorts half grunts, a tinge of amusement flickering in his eyes mixed with mild aggravation. "This is my bed. I can't go to bed until you get the fuck up and out."
"Rude." The redhead huffs under his breath. "This happens to be my couch more than it is your bed, you know."
"If you didn't want to host me you could have just said so."
Screeech. Hang on. Ichigo spins to sit crosswise and face the other boy completely. "Where the fuck did this come from? I never said I didn't want you here."
Is Toshiro really squirming to get as far as possible from him, pulling back against the armrest his side of the couch? 'Cause if he is, this is just so ridiculous it's not even funny. "Well, you make an amazing actor then."
The genius's voice is venomous. Ichigo can hardly believe his ears. "Care to elaborate?"
Toshiro is really getting into their little argument – it's plain to see by how he mimics the carrot-top and turns to crouch sideways, making eye contact with such a brute force it feels more like they're clashing hard. "You're never around. Not for lunch, not for dinner, and don't have me starting with the late nights. I don't think you've slept home more than two nights in a row since I've been staying here."
Okay, how long have I had a wife? The med student's eyes widen. This can't be happening for real. And it's not like, it's, it's none of Toshiro's business what he gets up to at night, especially since he's supposedly staying over at his girlfriend's (there's absolutely no need for the footballer to know Ichigo has actually bunked with Renji at the police headquarters the past few nights). Sleeping outside helps. Helps… keeping those dreams at bay. So Ichigo has found out. But he can't even begin to explain that to him who might easily be the very reason why said dreams awoke in the first place. "And your point would be…?"
Toshiro's beautiful, oh so very annoyingly beautiful eyes are squinted dangerously now. "You're avoiding me. I wanna know why. If you're not comfortable with – "
Scratch that. "I am comfortable. Totally. 'Tis my own freaking house after all. Why would I feel uneasy?"
Ah, fuck. He just knew he would overdo it somewhere through this little tiff (that he's not thinking of as a lovers tiff, thank you very much). Toshiro has probably seen through his poor attempt at a cool façade by now. "You've hated this place since the very moment your father said you should leave the campus and move your, how did he call it?, sorry disrespectful ass here." The small prodigy points out matter-of-factly, a half inquisitive half triumphant not-quite-smirk stirring his lips. "Besides, you're edgy. The paper will tear if you keep wrinkling it."
Sod it. "You know what?" Ichigo throws the book aside and leaps up, hoping a hasty retreat will conceal the disgraceful flush on his cheeks. "I'm going to bed."
He's actually surprised when Toshiro scrambles to stand up, as quickly as having his right leg in a cast allows. "Like hell you are! I demand to know what's wrong with you."
"What's wrong with me? Honestly, Toshiro." For a split second Ichigo stalls, hands on his hips, considering dignifying the other with a more elaborate answer only to think better of it within a moment. "Tomorrow will be another early rise. I could definitely do without you giving me a migraine." He ends in a defeated sigh before turning on his heels and moving to exit.
A breathy murmur reaches his ears before he gets the chance to take more than a few steps. "Shihoin-sensei, she said…" Ichigo spins around to find his mate locking gaze with the ground. "She said I am to make an important decision."
Wait up. That sounds familiar. Oh, right: the sly git had said the same words that morning at the hospital. Now genuinely curious, the ginger tries his hardest not to look overly interested and only offers a casual: "Could you use an advice?"
Toshiro's lips arch in a weak, condescending smile that has Ichigo's blood rushing to his temples. "I highly doubt you can help me with this."
"Try me."
Here's when the athlete's face falls, so blatantly even Ichigo acknowledges it. Somehow it feels like – he's not sure why, but still – like his little dare has struck Toshiro much harder than intended. Hit a sore button maybe, even.
Just when he's started wrapping his mind around the idea of never getting an answer, his former lover speaks up in a small voice. "Shihoin-sensei says there is the faint possibility that my sporting career may not be completely spoiled for good."
The ginger 'tch'es a little at that. "You're the only one who ever thought it was, y'know."
Mustn't it be weird for Toshiro to stand like that, leaning heavily on his crutch, eyes glued to the floor in – is that contrition? Or is he just scanning the floor for some imaginary underground way out? Whatever the case, his voice isn't apparently getting any steadier, and Ichigo finds himself shuffling his feet uneasily in reaction. All that stalling and lying and bottling things up is really getting on his nerves. "It's not like that. She made it pretty clear I'm done with soccer. That door stays closed. But I might still stand a chance with professional levels if I… reconsidered my priorities."
Hn. For some reason that doesn't sound right. "Meaning?"
"Shihoin-sensei always wanted me to keep training with her and become an athlete. Like Sojiro, whom she practically raised. When I chose football instead, she went nuts." Toshiro shifts his weight to get a better hold on his crutch, hopping a little in the process (sympathy and hilarity wage a duel inside Ichigo's chest at the sight). "Eventually we sorted things out and remained on decent terms. And now she heard about my accident and offered to help me get out of the impasse."
Tch, he had known something was off about this. The redhead can't quite keep an angered shaking off his voice. "By forsaking all that you've fought for these past six, seven years? Brilliant."
Toshiro's eyes shine viciously at that. "Not everything's all fucking black and white, you know, Ichigo? Sometimes you gotta look at the shades and see what's there. See if they're holding something in store for you."
Quickly getting over the mild shock of hearing his first name coming from the shorty's lips, Ichigo moves subconsciously closer, the biting edge in his tone sounding even clearer as he does. "Is this your ambition then? Living in the goddamn shades feeding off the tiniest crumbles of bygone glory and dead dreams life will be throwing at you?"
Yes, he's well aware he's being aggressive, but he's just too desperate for a reaction, and if his lasting acquaintance with the silver-haired prodigy has taught him something, that's undoubtedly that Toshiro needs cornering to give answers. "Damnit! Why can't you just – " Right as expected, the footballer waves his crutch in the air with a frustrated growl. Ichigo can tell he's fighting not to completely lose it. "We're not all like you. Somebody actually pays for their mistakes."
"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" When the former whiz kid turns around and starts clumsily limping away, Ichigo can't help but bark after him. "Oi, Toshiro! The hell you think you're goin'?"
The athlete glares over his shoulder. "I'm not staying if you're gonna be like this. I'm sure Momo and the others would – " Teal eyes screw tightly shut in a pained grimace. Toshiro shudders and the crutches holding him up tremble as he leans on them full weight.
Dizziness, Ichigo instantly deliberates. Probably caused by the high dosage of painkillers combined with emotional distress. He's right at the prodigy's side in a split second. "Calm the fuck down and sit." The tenderness in his own voice, clashing curiously with harsh words, startles him. Luckily Toshiro doesn't seem to notice as he giddily slouches against Ichigo's chest, his breathing laboured. Prevent panic attacks, the redhead recalls. His medical ethic tells him to stroke the boy's back reassuringly – although he can find no professional excuse for the sheer urge to run his fingers in silver hair (he stoically resists). The moment Toshiro makes a feeble attempt at pulling back, Ichigo knows he has to let him go. "Better?"
The smaller youth gives a curt, shaky nod. His eyes stay glued to the ground as he mutters something the med student doesn't quite catch. "If I accept Shihoin-sensei's proposal I'll be leaving with Sojiro in September, when the sporting season begins."
One word Ichigo hears perfectly though. "Leaving?"
Toshiro lifts his head – they're still strangely close, like neither is willing to acknowledge any sort of discomfort deriving from proximity – and casts him a 'what the hell is your problem, nitwit?' kind of look. "I'd be running for the major league. Of course I couldn't do that by staying here."
That brings a troubled scowl on Ichigo's face. What's so wrong with here? He can't help musing, but he knows better than to voice the thought.
"There's another option though." Now steadier on his legs, Toshiro withdraws a fraction so that his gaze levels with Ichigo's. "The sensei said that if I really don't want to give soccer up, I could try and apply for football coach here. The place shall be vacant from next term on, after Tsukabishi-sensei'll have resigned."
A carrot eyebrow shoots upward in surprise. "Sounds good enough to me."
Toshiro sucks on his lower lip, draws it between the pearly lines of his teeth in a way that captures Ichigo's attention for just a little longer than appropriate. "That would mean putting all my personal ambitions aside though. Everyone knows that in sports, once you've become a coach your career as a solo athlete is dead and gone." A vague, barely-there smile stretches the prodigy's lips tiredly. "I could really use that advice now, you know."
Damn. Sighing, Ichigo shoves his hands in his pockets as Toshiro stumbles backward and all but props back down onto the couch. This shitty situation he doesn't have a clue how to solve, and it's driving him nuts to feel – even worse, witness him feeling – so helpless. "Sadly you were right, I can't help you." The redhead admits reluctantly, rocking on the balls of his feet against his own better judgement. He hates being at a loss for what to say, and that's just what this stupid dilemma is making him feel like. What's worse, his body is known to go and betray him horribly in similar circumstances, namely giving him a flustered idiotic air; he can just hope Toshiro is beyond caring. "Just… you don't have to decide immediately, do you? Then sleep it down. See how it feels in the morning."
Fine, that wasn't the most brilliant advice in the history of human befriending, but he couldn't seem to come up with anything else. Toshiro wastes no time in mocking his gaucherie, a nasty smirk blooming on his features. "That's lame." Ichigo gives a contemptuous snort, which the snowy head replies to by cocking his head to side, lips twitching in a somewhat gentler smile. "But I will. Thank you."
Just as expected, his body doesn't miss the opportunity to embarrass him – much to his horror Ichigo feels what's undoubtedly a girly blush creeping over his cheeks. "Anytime." He grunts so grudgingly Toshiro frowns a little, but, oh, so what, not his burden. To hell with everything. Gonna follow his own advice and go sleep it down.
Whatever the fuck it is

Denim. Burning the top of his thighs. Carving reddish lines in the bare tender skin. In his lap, the other. Inches and inches and inches of naked skin he can feel up with hands that are shaking in anticipation.
This is different though. Different from usual. From before. Feels more like a – not quite a dream, he's not sure. More like a memory, maybe.
Maybe…
The gear stick pokes him in the knee as his lover nudges his legs further apart, lifting bony hips up in the meantime, wrapping firm legs around his waist. Ichigo breathes hard through his nose as a tongue flicks over his ear, sending jolts of electricity running down his spine.
He thrusts upward and in and, gods, gods, this is so something he has experienced before. He remembers. Remembers. The velvety heat clutching his manhood in a grip that's both painful and relieving at the same time. To the hilt, to the hilt. Bury. The car fills up with – mist, and noise, and the unmistakable smell of arousal that has nothing, nothing feminine to it.
Ichigo tilts his head backward to yield into a kiss. Rising on its own volition, his right hand threads through messy silver white tresses.

He comes back to consciousness with a somersault, panting heavily. The ache between his legs doesn't bother him half as much as the pale yet perfectly clear ghostly images from his dream though.
Ichigo punches his pillow, hard.
There's no fucking denying what's going on anymore, is there?

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Happy Ending