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Heartless	By : QueenOfCitrus Category: Bleach > Yaoi - Male/Male > Hitsugaya/Ichigo Views: 2448 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I do not own Bleach or any of its contents. I do not profit from writing this story or make any money from it in any way, shape or form. I don't own the song 'Heartless' by The Fray.

Chapter List
- 1
- 2
- 3
A/N: Okay, sweethearts, my friend DarkHolyMagic, who's not only an amazing writer but also a gifted artist has drawn a little fanart-ish piece for this story (and even if it doesn't look like it's very based on the story, I still think all of you should go look) so the link is in my profile page, or you can just google 'Darkholymagic heartless' and see what comes out. :3

Heartless

Part 2

Frostbite

How could you be so heartless?

Oh... How could you be so heartless?

In a small village not far away, two neighboring children – a boy and a girl - befriend each other, tying a bond that is meant to last for life. Ignorant of the deeds of the higher forces, they live their childhood in happiness and nonchalant joy, listening to the legends of the Snow Queen that lives in a palace of ice and frost at the end of the world itself. The stories they neglect with ease, refusing to believe what is meant to stay in the bewitching confines of the magical fairy tale world, and so the chilly blue eyes that watch upon them, remain forever unnoticed. Hidden.

"Does he have some Napoleon thing going on?" Ichigo asks between rhythmical intakes of breath, glancing with the corner of his eyes at Kyouraku, who - just like him - is currently jogging on the neighboring treadmill. "I mean, not that one week of working in that place is that long to judge, but-"

"What? Because he's short?" the dark-haired man asks with an amused arch of his brow and laughs, his voice sounding completely calm despite the fact that he's been running on a much greater speed for a much longer time than the carrot-top himself. It's pretty amazing, Ichigo notes enviously, because no matter how many times he has had the stupidity to meet with his friend in the gym, or how hard the older man is working out while they're talking, Kyouraku just never breaks into sweat. "I don't think he's all that fond of his stature, yes, but he has no plans to take over the world. The power and responsibilities he's got at hand are plenty as it is."

"Then… he's not a people person?" the carrot-top guesses again, nearly tripping over his own feet when he dares to turn his head in his companion's direction.

"He's not an anything person."

"Why does he run the business then?"

"Well, what else is he supposed to do?"

"Sell it. Get a girlfriend. A flat. Be rich for life." Then something else infests Ichigo's mind and he grasps the handles of the treadmill, steadying himself till he manages to formulate his question more clearly. "Does he have… any personal life at all?"

Beside him Kyouraku reaches to casually press the button for an increase of the speed (Once. Twice. Five times.), the side of his mouth turning upwards in something of a coy smile that for a moment seriously throws the carrot-top off the track.

"Why are you so interested?"

"No reason." Ichigo insists hurriedly. "He just reacted in a weird way when he saw my engagement ring."

"Is this why you haven't been wearing it lately?" the dark-haired man inquires absently, adjusting the pony-tail at the back of his neck while his feet easily catch up with the new tempo of the machine that is buzzing unhappily beneath him. Beside him, Ichigo turns to fix his gaze right in front of himself before the brunette has had the chance to gauge his expression, the odd feeling that he's flushing crawling up his tan neck like an avalanche of terrible heat. He kindda hopes it's the work-out that's getting to him… Or maybe-

"…No."

Kyouraku guffaws with incredible gusto at that one single word.

"Is that the first time in your life that you've lied?" the taunt is good-natured and friendly, albeit rather painfully obvious in its implication and as the carrot-top feels his comrade level him with half-teasing, half-wondering eyes, he can't help it but let out a small huff. He's only talked about this once – and while not particularly sober, too – but he knows quite well what is his friends' opinion about his neat, uneventful life, and he's ashamed to admit that deep inside he agrees with them all. Why? Well, sitting in a bar and trying to remember what your fiancée has asked you to buy on your way back home, while your single and very much adventurous buddies rant about their most recent escapades with a glass of copper-coloured whiskey in their hand… it is humiliating to say the least.

"What was I supposed to do?" Ichigo grumbles mirthlessly, panting when another wave of warmth explodes across his already overheated body. "I told him I was engaged, and he looked at me like I was some kind of a leper!"

"Hitsugaya doesn't look at anyone like that. He has the same expression about anything, except sometimes it's a little more… passive-aggressive. Like in your case."

Ichigo frowns, biting the inner side of his cheek as the familiar tendrils of suspicion flourish up his stomach and threaten to make him trip again. He has slipped towards these wonderings several times before, quickly and unnoticeably despite what his beliefs about discretion and integrity keep telling him, and he has ended up being plagued by his own blitheness assumptions, possessed by the luring image of his cold-hearted boss and his inexplicable behavior the way a body is relentlessly seized by a rare, yet fatal disease. There's something about Toushiro… something in those quiescent jade eyes, in the barely curved lips and that exhausted, physically draining smile, that has been titillating Ichigo's nerves similarly to the silky wings of a tiny butterfly. Dammit… This tickle is nearly painful in its incredible evanescence, it has been frazzling and fretting at him from the inside in a way that the carrot-top can neither describe, nor understand. He's barely talked to his employer, and when he has, he's felt more than a little intimidated by the way the boy glides upon the surface of the conversation, nudging at the rents in the taller man's composure and never, ever raising his voice, no matter what the topic is… Ichigo knows that Kyouraku is the head of one of Hitsugaya's newspapers, that they are – if not close – then at least on better terms than what most people can hope to achieve when it comes to the white-haired blizzard… and yet, the orange-haired lad can't help it but think that no matter how hard he tries, he'd still get nothing substantial from his comrade regarding Toushiro. This isn't a matter of complicity or wits. It's about something else entirely – a character that appears nearly inhuman in his liquidly way of thinking, a boy with patronizing and unbearably hard gaze, a person who looks like a child and possesses the mind, the hauteur, the eccentricity of a king.

Ichigo clears his throat:

"It felt like I hit a nerve." He admits half-heartedly. "Like the mere fact that I had someone by my side was personally offending him. Do you know anything about that?"

"You should stop being so terribly interested in your boss' personal life." Kyouraku points out matter-of-factly, reaching to increase the speed of his treadmill with five more points as though this is nothing but the warm up to the actual working-out. Beside him, the carrot-top can merely gape and gawk in astonishment at the innatural endurance this seemingly beyond lazy man keeps manifesting so bluntly. And here I thought I was fit…

"You just said he doesn't have one."

"I said no such thing," the dark-haired man amends, lifting his index finger for emphasize as he keeps running without a single care in the world, the occasional hum of some nameless tune rolling off his tongue in the pauses between the retorts he gives his younger friend. "You just automatically assumed it."

"So does he?"

"What? Have a personal life? No. I can't remember the last time he's taken interest in anyone."

Ichigo gives himself a moment to chew over those words, thoughtful brown orbs lifting up towards the ceiling to find a less distracting spot to contemplate.

"This makes no sense." He concludes after about half a minute of reflecting over what he has just been told. "He's rich. Young. Good-looking. So why the hell not? Why?"

Kyouraku just chuckles at the incredulity in his comrade's voice and shakes his head before muttering with an elusive quirk of his brow:

"Because gods don't like to bleed."

When Orihime first asked him what he was going to be doing at his new job, Ichigo had simply told her that he would be sorting through unsolicited manuscripts, picking out the worthy ones, and contacting writers that already had connections with the publishing house for new projects. But it's so much harder than this simple little explanation… In reality, spending so much time over someone else's works, rummaging through lists of already known names and making a thousand phone calls a day feels like more of a secretary's job than an editor's one. By the time it hits noon, he's usually on the verge of a headache, seeing the words on the pages double and triple, and unable to concentrate on the responsibilities at hand simply because he has blocked… Yes, this is definitely not what he has been imagining in his mind, the carrot-top admits to himself, slumping back in his swirling chair one Monday morning and pushing himself around with the toe of his sneaker-clad foot to possibly jiggle what is has left in his skull… he has come to this place with the idea that he would be doing the writing… not fighting for strangers' works to be published as the next best-seller...

As he lets his eyes rest a little from the black-and-white paper that they have been staring at for the better part of the morning, Ichigo thanks his lucky star that at least he's got an office of his own and he doesn't have to work in one of those atrocious cubicles that seem to enhance claustrophobia and depression and god knows what else. He can't get it through his head how someone would agree to spend their day between the plastic walls of something that painfully resembles a cell in a honeycomb; it makes him shiver just thinking about it … Or maybe he's exaggerating. Maybe he's just too stuck after those last few draft books he had to go through, the content of the hateful pages reducing his mind activity to pointless little topics and pitiful complaints. Damn. It's honestly amazing how some people believe they've achieved some unattainable literature high, when they can't construct a sentence that is longer than four words and three exclamation marks. Ichigo hates the three exclamation marks… they give him the creeps.

Swaying from side to side a couple of times more, the carrot-top decides that it's time to get a coffee from the coffee machine not far away down the hall. The caffeine could nudge his mind a bit, and he definitely needs to stretch his legs – needs it after so many hours of sitting in the same spot. He should probably call Orihime, too, because if he doesn't – she will – and who knows in what condition his thoughts will be if she picks the wrong moment to do just that.

Pushing himself off the chair, Ichigo makes his way towards the door and turns right, passing a couple of closed office doors till he reaches a vast round space near the staircase, a lonely hot drinks automat resting against the left wall, between two neat benches. As he steps closer to the machine and begins to rummage clumsily through his pockets for some coins, the carrot-top can't help it but turn in the opposite direction to face the only, by now painfully familiar, office that rests across of him. With its door usually widely open for reasons that he still can't fathom, Hitsugaya's work spot is about the largest and most opulently furnished place on the whole floor. Unlike most of the time, however, the white-haired boy is not alone in the room, bent over whatever papers he needs to be going through at the moment – instead, he's currently talking to somebody. Or rather, the somebody in question is heatedly trying to convince the owner of the publishing house that-…. That…

Ichigo narrows his eyes, trying to listen more closely to what is happening inside Toushiro's office, and he finds himself nearly gagging when he hears the stranger raising his voice.

"What the hell is wrong with you? Have you got no heart?"

"Funny you should ask." Hitsugaya's voice ripples with the smallest drop of wizening amusement, and Ichigo can almost see his boss leaning back in his large, comfortable chair, pale lips turned upwards in one of those artificial, on-duty smiles that he obviously feels the need to manifest every once in a while. "I'm the very heart of this company, Mr. Kato, and as every heart, I represent the vital organ that makes everything else work. You, on the other hand? You resemble more of a… greying hair that's just fallen off. I'd rather grow a new one than try to stick the old back in place."

Taking a couple of quiet steps towards the office, the carrot-top narrows his eyes in vague disbelief of what he is hearing. The sweetness in Toushiro's voice, the velvety texture that underlines every cold, cruel word, every spoken thought and ingenious mockery, stabs his flesh similarly to a heated needle, and he's not even on the receiving end of this all. It's just… it's just amazing, in the most twisted sense of the word possible, how someone so delicate, so classy and composed can let so much venom and malice flow between their lips with the same soft tone, in which one could actually whisper in the ear of a lover. It creeps Ichigo out to think about it and it fascinates him, too, because no matter how far back he digs in his past, he can't recall ever meeting a guy quite like Hitsugaya…

"I am not asking you for a leave so I can go somewhere and have fun and relax… My wife is sick. I need to be by her side for the next week or two, I need to be there for her."

"That doesn't concern me." The impatient sound of Toushiro's pen tapping against the edge of the desk reaches Ichigo's ears and he takes just a few more steps towards the door, standing at a safe distance from it so he can both hear what is going on and remain invisible for the people inside. "You're healthy, aren't you?"

"That- that's not the point!" Mr. Kato exclaims in desperation, probably staring at his employer with the same wide and disbelieving eyes that every person tends to develop especially and explicitly for their trysts with Hitsugaya. "It's not-"

"It's the only point that is of importance to me." Toushiro states in an easeful, completely sated manner. "It's quite ridiculous to pretend otherwise, because you've already wasted all your off-day allowances, and I'm quite sure you are aware of that… In fact, do you know Dicken's 'A Christmas Carol'? Such a classic tale, I've always despised the story and its edifying nature fully and completely, and I know quite well that in your head right now I'm the very embodiment of Scrooge, his evil and his gloating, and his inability to give… but there's the catch: I'm not stingy and I'm not a liar. I pay my employees generously and fulfilling, I never deceive or mislead you and I always keep my promises. All I ask in return is for a little loyalty, responsibility and professionalism, and if you can't handle that, then I'm afraid your services are no longer required."

"Loyalty?" the stranger repeats, disbelieving, maybe even close to the verge of hysteria. "Loyalty? My wife could be dying and you're asking me to pay attention to contract details?"

"Well, she'll be dying with or without you there, won't she?" Hitsugaya admits, the careless shrug shadowing his tone as the chair screeches in response, probably being pulled harshly away from the desk as the employer rises on his feet. "One thing that might change though? That would be your working place, I hope you realize that."

"You're actually asking me to choose between my family and my job?"

"Tch. I'm not asking you to do anything other than weigh your possibilities. I couldn't care less if you're working here or not. Everybody's replaceable."

"Then what is this all about?"

Toushiro wastes no time replying, the bubbles of some blood-curling laughter rumbling along with the simplicity of his answer:

"I have an image to uphold." He clicked his tongue and the picture of the delicious, inviting lips, forming one of those soulless smiles emerge in Ichigo's head. "And what is one without an image nowadays?"

Ichigo spends the rest of the day in some kind of a half-shocked state, doing his job automatically and meticulously, like a newly bought, but badly explored, machine. He has already called Orihime and let her ramble for a while, catching a few key words in her usual tirade, just enough to understand that she's going out and won't be home till late in the evening. The news neither bother, nor excite the carrot-top in any way – the long years that he's spent together with this girl have made him practically immune to emotions such as jealousy, envy, and anxiety when it comes to their relationship, and for that he can be nothing but grateful. This is what love is supposed to be, he tries to assure himself as he glances at his watch and goes back to arranging the few dozen folders in separate piles, love should be certain, and unyielding, and strong. So maybe they don't observe each other's movements, they don't worry about who is coming home when, and they don't sit next to the window, calling non-stop when one of them is running late. What they have is based on trust, reason and a lot of things which most couples would die to have…

…So why does this everlasting routine feel so dull, so lifeless, so… mundane? Why does he find himself secretly rolling his eyes or just plain tuning out his fiancée rather than adoring the mere sound of her voice the way books and movies claim that he should? Why is it so hard to stay interested in how Orihime's day went, and who she met and what she did, when he knows well enough that if he's planning to spend the rest of his life with this girl, he'll need to at least be able to have a decent, unimportant, small talk with her over dinner?

Frowning slightly, Ichigo is surprised to find himself thinking back to the conversation he accidentally overheard (or purposefully eavesdropped to, depends on how you want to view it…) right in front of Hitsugaya's office, the vague, indefinite feeling that his boss can't be a healthy person tugging at his stomach with foreign, clammy fingers. He's seen spiteful people before alright, he's seen angry, apoplectic, depressed, melancholic men and women, with either no real purpose in their lives or too many failures left behind them…But- But Toushiro simply doesn't fit in any of these categories. Toushiro doesn't fit anywhere, he's too young, too attractive, too successful to belong to the chipped, imperfect definitions that one often gives to those chosen few who tend to exist for the sole reason of ruining the others. Every bit of this boy, every inch of flawless milky flesh, every slow, beautifully drawn out gesture, each illusion of an emotion that those carefully etched, soft features arrange in order to preserve some kind of a fake facade… All these things have built a doll, and a masterpiece. They have not… created a human being…

…But what scares Ichigo isn't the fact that these thoughts come so easily and so persistently to him, and neither is it this odd sense of distance that he experiences whenever he faces his boss… it's the dull, undetermined idea that he gets as he watches Hitsugaya: the nagging notion that this astounding person has been amputated, crippled… like maybe a single thread has been ripped from this little body, and beneath the smooth surface which the skin depicted, everything has fallen apart.

…A lone, withering rose emerges in the carrot-top's mind, and for a second he feels his blood run cold in daunting confusion. What the hell was that… How did the- How… He manages to chase away the image almost instantly, blaming the incident on taut nerves and artificial illumination, and automatically reaches to line up one of the piles of documents. His thoughts wander back to the man that Toushiro downright fired for having family troubles, and he feels an unpleasant sting swipe up his lungs, momentarily messing up the rhythm of his breathing. Where the hell have I landed myself…? What kind of a person treats his employees like this? What kind of a man puts people on the edge of a cliff and tells them to either jump or single-handedly cut their hearts out of their chests…? This can't be normal… Shaking his head, Ichigo stands up and gathers one of the stacks of papers in his hand and heads for the door, a mix of preposterous dread and even more preposterous curiosity travelling through his veins like liquid bane. His work hours are almost over…All he needs to do, is deliver these files to Hitsugaya's office and possibly get some new directions for the next day. Then he can take off for home. And forget all about this, have a cup of tea and possibly spend the rest of the evening watching TV on the couch…

…A little peace and quiet is all he needs, honestly, some idiotic show that doesn't demand any cerebral activity, and pop-corn. And he'll put his feet on the table, since Orihime won't be there to see.

The familiar corridor opens up for him with its naturally cold, lean arms, and as he approaches Hitsugaya's office, he's surprised to find its door closed, the slick wood hostilely unmovable as though the mere presence of such a pathetic being makes it grow even taller and more repellent. Standing in front of this formidable barrier, Ichigo wonders for a trice whether he should just go back to his office and come again another time, but that idea melts away immediately, replaced by rather unexpected determination instead. What is wrong with him? Getting all worked up over his short, ridiculously young boss? Sure, Toushiro is rather unpredictable from what he's got to see of the boy so far, very whimsical, very controversial, (and awfully small for such a haughty, imperturbable character) but he's a person, just like him, what is the worst that could happen?

Sucking in a deep breath of air, the carrot-top lifts his fist and knocks on the door twice. When no answer follows, he wraps his hand around the door-knob and twists it, ever so carefully, surprised when instead of resisting as he has expected it to, it clicks and opens smoothly, welcoming him in the vast, stylish room.

"Um. Hello?" he calls carefully, poking his head inside the office and letting his eyes swipe across the darkening horizon. No one has bothered to turn on the lights as the natural daily illumination has exhausted its warmth, and so after sunset the place seems to have sunk in the very much expected ashen grey, muffling the shine of most of the furniture and making everything seem softer, smaller. The air is crunchy and static, freezing cold, and as the carrot-top steps over the threshold and closes the door behind him, a powerful, bone-wrecking shudder shakes his whole body from head to toe. "God, what the fuck is wrong with the heater?" the words come out as a plaintive little whisper, although for a moment he isn't entirely sure why his mouth would struggle to keep everything quiet when there's obviously no one in the near vicinity, but the question remains unanswered. Instead, as he slowly fights to ignore the vicious frost-bites that the temperature threatens to plant on his prickling skin, something else catches his attention and he pauses in confusion.

The chair in which Toushiro usually works is still there, resting quietly behind the large, impressively well-ordered desk, but unlike most of the time, it's facing away from the door – currently representing a large, dark block of darkness in the center of an obscure and unwelcoming room. Unseen ice teeth – cruel and calloused like the season that created them – nibble at the carrot-top's fingers, knuckles, collar-bone, but he steps deeper inside the office anyways, drawn by a force that he can neither fathom, nor resist. A single, thin arm comes up from the initially impenetrable shadows, hanging limply from one shapeless arm-rest and Ichigo's eyes widen, the realization that the owner of this little fading palace is still here both coming as a surprise, and as something expected to him. Another shudder, this one having nothing to do with the cool surroundings, licks up the carrot-top's spine, and similarly to a robot with no thoughts and no will, he finds himself approaching the place where he assumes the boy would be. The familiar name pushes against his lips tautly and hesitantly, but he manages to swallow the call's sour texture, suddenly overwhelmed by the idea that he's doing something wrong, something forbidden.

…He can't be… Is he- Is he really-

As he rounds his boss' chair, tiptoeing along the fluffy dark blue carpet on the floor with something akin to mischief spicing up his movements, he can't help it but smile slightly at the sight of the shorter male, curled in the corner of his seat and slumbering soundlessly with his knees drawn to his chest. Guess he is... In the smoky shroud of the perishing day, hidden by too many growing shades and exposed to too little light, the pale face looks incredibly young, startling fragile, and once again rimmed with that frightening, invisible line of unhealthiness, which seems to grow more and more perceptible the more time Ichigo spends in the presence of this person. With his right hand holding onto the arm-rest, cheek placed on top of its little knuckles and his other arm dangling lifelessly in the air, Toushiro could've been taken from a bold, yet strangely soothing, modern black-and-white photo. Those unique jade eyes, frighteningly intense in their unnatural, almost arcane nuance, are now hidden behind veils of white, and with that one last detail concealed from the avid gaze of the world, every bit of colour that this boy could possibly possess, has been taken away from him.

Ichigo feels his breath hitch as he slowly approaches the smaller male, chocolate orbs wide and bleary, drinking in the view in front of them with grueling thirst. The need to touch, to feel Hitsugaya and make sure he is real, is like a shot in the head: he never saw it coming, he only ever feels the consequences of this lethal bullet, and all of a sudden… he literally can't breathe. This boy is like a beautiful, frighteningly well-preserved corpse. Gorgeous. Brittle. Soulless.

Something snaps in Ichigo at that thought and he swallows hard, shaking his head as a tepid wave of compassion washes over him without explanation and without a real purpose. He watches those slim little fingers, spread with unwilling grace under the boy's face, and he watches the relaxed, froth-like features, and he watches the bony pair of knees, pulled so closely, so childishly to Hitsugaya's chest… and he can't fight the overwhelming need to protect this person that grasps his heart, and fills him up to the brim.

He's too young for this… It must be draining him.

Reaching through some kind of an inexplicable trance for Toushiro's wrist, planning maybe to gather the lifelessly hanging limb and put it on the arm-rest as well as its twin, Ichigo nearly jumps back at the contact of his own skin with his superior's one. The pale flesh, so delicious when admired from aside, is deadly cold - almost painfully so - and as he cautiously wraps his fingers around the dainty hand, he feels something inside him paralyze in fear. There's… There's… There's no pulse!

Momentarily he loses any sense of awareness, any thought, any reason, as the floor shatters beneath his feet and he almost gags on thin air. His whole being ignites with the horror of what this could mean; it doesn't matter if it's logical, it doesn't matter what the cause could be – pills, drugs, an anomaly of some kind - it just is. Like a bullet in the desert or a needle in the spine, he knows that the chances are slim, but the results are there, heightened by the freshness of the body and the depth of the mind that define the very essence of the victim. A hundred images and chaos-stricken words rush through Ichigo's head, but he can neither catch them, nor see beyond the fog that this chaos has created. With the desperation of a man who has no idea what he's doing, he decides to check one more time – with fingers that are shaking madly in fright and apprehension - and tries to find some proof for heart activity as he presses two digits under the boy's jawline and seeks. Seeks the warmth and life that deep inside he already knows he won't find, he seeks comfort for his suddenly withering heart, and hope for his wilting soul… This can't be happening!

…Nothing. Absolutely nothing…

Ichigo can literally feel the blood withdraw from his face, leaving his tan cheeks an unpleasant shade of vapid grey, his eyes drowning with the realization of what is happening.

I need to call an ambulance... He's-

…And at the same time… At the same time, there, he's breathing. He's breathing, like a completely normal human being, a sleeping creature that has slipped away into the dream-land, but also a creature with skin so cold, so fey, that it's literally searing the carrot-top's flesh.

"Oh, God…" it's the only thing that he can utter, and after what feels like eternity, but is in reality no more than a few seconds, he's dropped on his knees, shaking the boy, whispering that sweet name, again and again, with urgency that a beloved man might pour into the calls of his precious one, and he knows, he knows, that it'll all prove to be in vain in the end, but he can't help himself... What can he do? How could he save this child? He is neither aware of what's wrong, nor if it's fixable… And it most likely isn't. People like Hitsugaya… drowned under stress and parades, struggling to maintain a façade that is slowly corroding them from the inside… they don't survive for long. Their body doesn't. Their minds fail. And yet… And yet the illusion that he might be able to rouse Toushiro is stronger than the carrot-top's reason, stronger than the calloused knowledge that books have stuffed into his head. So he doesn't stop. He doesn't care. Although the blood-curling voice of truth keeps chanting in his mind anyways: He won't wake up if his heart isn't beating… He won't…

Ichigo grits his teeth together.

…Wake up… Please, wake up…

And then…

A loud gasp tears through the air and to Ichigo's surprise the once motionless boy jumps in his seat, wide turquoise eyes staring in shock at the person before him. Pale, frost-like lips part in confusion and lashes flutter, chasing away the fading vestiges of sleep. The scent of biting winter drips in the air between them, crispy and surreal, and it makes the carrot-top's breath swirl in tiny clouds of white in front his mouth – a detail that he fails to notice.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Hitsugaya whispers in disbelief, indignation maybe even horror wafting from his tone, and he tries to pull away from the uninvited guest, but before he can do anything of the sort, Ichigo's hands are on either of his cheeks, chocolate orbs staring through the cinereous darkness in the nearly glowing teal pools.

"You had no pulse." Ignoring the unpleasantly cold feeling of the soft skin under his touch, the man moves his fingers down, right under the delicately-chiseled jawline and nearly chokes. "There's still no pulse! What the-"

"Let go of me!"

Hitsugaya wrenches himself free so hard and so fast, that Ichigo involuntarily recoils from the sharp reaction, baffled by the sheer spite focused in that one single movement. It's the most abrupt motion he's ever seen his boss make and the fact makes the fine hairs on the back of his neck raise along with a deep, harsh shudder. As he stands up and steps back, watching the boy raise to his feet with a malign little curve in the end of his mouth, he is almost sure the temperature has dropped low enough to make the air practically screech along with each movement. Something is terribly wrong with this room, this boy, everything. It makes his thoughts creak and fracture under the weight of this mind-crushing ignorance, because he has no idea what is going on. And it doesn't look like he's going to find out any time soon… He has got nothing to deserve such information.

"Closed door, means you don't enter." Toushiro states, and although under the surface of the icy façade something shifts similarly to an insect beneath thin bed-sheets, the unnatural stillness of that low voice is back, suffocatingly inhuman. "This is invasion of my privacy."

"For a minute… for a minute I thought-" the pressure around his throat loosens and suddenly Ichigo feels a strong tide of frustration wash over him. "What the hell is wrong with your heart?"

"There's nothing wrong with my heart." Toushiro replies evenly, eyes narrowing for a trice, only to relax again as he wraps his arms very loosely around his middle. "As you can see, I'm perfectly healthy. You, on the other hand seem a little pale, Mr. Kurosaki, maybe you would like to sit down?"

"You had no pulse!"

"I beg your pardon, are you a doctor?"

"I don't have to be one to know-"

"Then I suggest you don't speak on subjects you're incompetent in." Toushiro's voice slices through the air like a cold blade and the carrot-top can't help it but freeze, contemplating mutely as the boy slowly tilts his head to the side, all remnants of emotion, all implications of something, anything, thawing off that perfect, slick mask of indifference till there's nothing to see. Nothing to understand. "I'll assume that this is your first offence and you can't really be blamed for being ignorant… I have enough things on my mind, Mr. Kurosaki, if the door is closed and I've given myself an hour of rest, that means neither you, nor anyone else for that matter, is welcome to violate my peace and quiet."

Ichigo clenches his jaw, feeling his muscles tense and curl under the tanned skin as for the first time since he's stepped into this company, he experiences the almost savage need to slap this boy, shake him till he can't see, hit him till he bleeds, because no one can be this cold-blooded! Gods… He knows he can't lose his nerves, he can't go too far, can't challenge his superior merely a week and a half after being hired by some miracle in the most promising company in the country… but he's sure, he's so sure there was no pulse!

"I just wanted to help." He manages through his teeth and Toushiro lets out a small huff; a tiny sound that expresses dry, unnatural amusement.

"How sweet." He mutters and the sarcasm burns similarly to a smoldering amber against unprotected fingertips. Without really paying attention to the incredulous look that the other man is giving him, the white-haired lad reaches for the pile of documents that are still miraculously resting in the carrot-top's hands and straightens his thin shoulders. "I suppose these are what all this was about?"

Pressing his lips in a tight, angry line, Ichigo throws the papers on the desk just behind the smaller male and strolls right out of the room, barely containing himself from slamming the door in the process. Behind him, Toushiro follows the taller figure with his barren, emerald gaze till the door is closed shut once again, and then he slowly lifts his hand to his chest, pressing his cold fingers right over where his heart is supposed to be.

He can feel nothing.

A/N; You know what to do with that 'review' button down there. ^^
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Heartless