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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
- 20
- 21
- 22
September
The upper left corner of the picture went missing; the remaining edge is burnt out, its copper shade looking no different from a sophisticated light effect lost among the bright spotlight rays. In the background, a pale banner stuck to the wall wishes everyone a happy new year. The Gotei club whose rise Toshiro witnessed in first hand comes across as one big bubble of dizzy new year's eve excitement, as the blinding grins showing off their faces – even his own lips are slightly tilted, the footballer notices – care to testify. When his eyes fall on Ichigo's arm casually draped across his shoulders, Toshiro smiles tiredly and puts the faded photo away with the rest of the stuff piling up inside the big carton box.
That picture captured most easily his last happy memory. It was taken by Kurosaki Ishin at the Gotei's new year's eve party, merely two hours before Ichigo took him to his car and –
I think I may be falling just a wee bit in love with you.
– and the thin ice Toshiro had been treading upon shattered under his feet, freezing water swallowing him whole.
A stab of guilt pierces his chest as he realizes just how shallow he's being, dwelling over meaningless facts from their past when it's really the present that's threatening to crumble around them. Part of him can't help basking in the sweetness memories provide with hindsight, though. Everything was so much simpler then. Matsumoto had been there at the time, and Renji…
"Hitsugaya-kun, are you done yet?" Kira inquires politely, barely sticking his head inside the bedroom. All the same, Toshiro feels himself cringe at the sadness poorly hiding beneath the blonde's encouraging smile.
"Yeah, coming right up." He deftly settles the lid over the square box and stands, ignoring the way his head spins after the abrupt movement. As his body keeps reminding him, it's been ages since he last exercised properly. Toshiro doesn't think he's ever been this out of shape since he first got into athletics, at about the age of sodding eleven.
They walk down the hall and outside, Izuru and him, elbows brushing every so often in a silent, mutual search for comfort. The sun is warm but pale, hidden by a veil of clouds too slight to shadow it, yet stubborn enough to dim its light. Even the air feels almost too dry to breathe in, too thin, too still.
Toshiro's lungs constrict painfully as he opens his mouth to speak, only to be muted by the undeterred lump in his throat.
"You made it." Kusaka smiles calmly, his lean form hunched over the open car trunk. Small beads of sweat gathered at his temples, and Toshiro feels yet another dart of guilt shoot through him – he was so intent on sulking in his cocoon of self-pity he forgot all about helping his oldest friend packing.
"Yeah. Sorry I'm late. I just… I was going through Renji's stuff and sort of… got caught up."
"I understand." And Toshiro can tell by the way Sojiro squeezes his shoulder he really does. "I must confess, part of me was wishing you wouldn't make it, so I could slink off under your nose and get it over with." The athlete winks with an air that clearly says he doesn't have the heart to make fun of Toshiro any more cruelly, which the short prodigy is deeply grateful for.
"Like I'm buying it. You're a damn clingy, hopeless, sentimental pussy." He makes an effort to repay Sojiro for his effort and coaxes a smirk into playing on his lips, as much as it costs him to even fake mirth.
"Aha, but there you have it! All the more reasons to want to avoid this moment like the plague – my poor maiden heart cannot stand farewells."
Farewells. That word sounds so final Toshiro chokes on it in his mind. "Don't be ridiculous. I didn't put myself through the pain of sharing a flat with you this past year or so to see you walk out of my life for good in the end." He scowls some for effect, arms crossing over his chest. "You'd better spare me a bed in your European quarters. Make damn sure it's comfy, too."
Kusaka throws his head back with a chuckle. "Aye, aye!" The tilt of his lips never faltering, only morphing into a more wicked grin, he leans forth and over the other boy, whispering into Toshiro's ear to keep the rest of his reply a secret between them. "Though we both know you won't be visiting soon. Not until – " The murderous look the shorty casts him succeeds in cutting Sojiro off, but catches Izuru's attention.
"Ahem, Kusaka-kun… Momo asked me to tell you she's really sorry she couldn't stop by to greet you, but with the committee and all – "
"It's perfectly okay, Kira-kun." Sojiro reassures the blonde, all the while pulling away from Toshiro and slamming the car trunk shut (with an oh-so-smooth motion the softened footballer is prone to be jealous of). "I wasn't expecting the girls to come anyway. I'm well aware of just how busy they've been as of late, plus the general spirit isn't really at its highest these days."
"Well, yes." Izuru scratches the back of his head apologetically. "Anyway, I'm sure you'll make lots of amazing friends in Europe! You're – "
"No, he won't." Toshiro chides, a lopsided smirk on his lips telling Kusaka he means no ill will. "Solitude comes with being a genius."
"Ah, I'll miss your backhanded compliments so much, Shiro-chan!"
"Don't call me that!"
"So it was a compliment, huh?"
"Knock it off and get going already." Toshiro grunts, then slaps the taller boy's hand off his shoulder. No use: next thing he knows Sojiro has thrown himself in his arms, head buried in the hollow of the footballer's neck.
"I'll miss you too, Shiro-chan." The brunette nuzzles the side of his friend's cheek with mock affection, rubbing his nose against the baby-soft skin of Toshiro's jaw line. Teal blue eyes flutter shut for a moment, the snowy head revelling in the familiar vanilla scent that's uniquely Sojiro, as the raven-haired youth turns to press his lips just below his mate's earlobe. "Good luck with everything. Keep me up to date." He whispers, and Toshiro can only nod awkwardly due to their position.
Later on, after Izuru bids Kusaka goodbye and the brunette leaves on his car, Toshiro finds himself walking down the same road he has for weeks, each step following the other without him really ordering his legs to move. Good thing too; his brain feels too crammed to operate properly. He's pretty sure Sojiro's departure is to blame for the dull ache in his chest, but that's not the only sensation swirling in his breast. The chill nestled at the pit of his stomach is an old acquaintance – has been there since day one of Renji's hospitalization – though it's now accompanied by the rhythmic clenching of his abs and a weird tingle at the base of his spine. Even his skin feels off, prickling and breaking into shivers for no apparent reason. It's like a hunch or something, the prodigy tells himself, then tries to shrug it off as the huge white building comes into view.
The reason for his body's discomfort becomes clear as lightening the moment he steps into the lounge room, only to back off precipitously at the sight of two figures, a boy and a girl, standing in a corner, wrapped in a tight embrace.
That'd be no means to scare Toshiro off, if only it weren't the man he loves and his girlfriend hugging tenderly before his eyes.
Screw this. One thing is to know you're hopelessly in love with a man who's never seen nor will ever see you as more than a friend, in the best case scenario, or a sexual experiment, in the worst; to be confronted with the evidence of said man's romantic disinterest is something else entirely, though, and way beyond Toshiro's tolerance limit. No matter how his body is physically shaking with the need to know what's going on, he is not going to be found starring in this as the stupid cat that was killed by curiosity. Not on his life. So not. Period.
… it's not even his fault, really. No one could blame him for listening – because that's sure as hell not eavesdropping – since the lounge room walls are actually no thicker than paper panels, and he happens to be standing right by the one Ichigo and Tatsuki are leaning against. Not his fault, honestly. And it's not like it could be helped anyway, since there's nowhere else for him to turn in order to give the pair some privacy.
Besides, all he hears is Ichigo muttering sweet nothings supposedly in the girl's ear, as Tatsuki switches between murmuring back (so low, dammit, fucking private people) and bursting into overall discreet sobs. Toshiro can nearly see her, wiping her cheeks on Ichigo's white shirt while the ginger treads skilful fingers through her hair soothingly. The scene is so disturbing, if for no good reason, he has to tear his mind off it lest the gritting of his teeth cause any serious damage.
Eventually the door bursts open and Tatsuki storms out of the lounge room, head bowed and bony shoulders still shaking, too engrossed in her personal mourning to notice Toshiro's presence as she rockets past him.
The whiz kid stands for a long time right outside the room, shuffling his feet as he waits for Ichigo to come out. Too bad fear has the best of him at last: he bolts the moment a shadow appears behind the door glass.
So sorry, Pineapple Head. I promise I'll visit tomorrow.

October
"I know you'll hate me for asking, but are you positive this is the right choice?" Sojiro had ventured with tiredness in his eyes, back when leaving for Europe and giving his sports career a new twist was still an option.
Toshiro remembers it vividly, his friend's mute disbelief – the disapproval and contempt burning below his cool façade, buried under layers of unspoken sympathy – as he shrugged the question off. "Don't know about right, but this is what I have to do now. There's things tying me here I can't set aside until…" Here the prodigy had blushed and looked away to hide it. Predictably enough, Kusaka had not been fooled.
"Aha, it's rude to leave someone hanging like that, Shiro-chan. Until…?"
Grunting, Toshiro had uttered the words so fast Sojiro would hopefully not get a thing. "Until I've figured out how they truly matter to me. Happy now? Go pack your stuff, comb your hair or piss off, for all I care. Just don't bring this up again."
He couldn't forget Kusaka's saddened smile if he tried. "Fine, coach Hitsugaya. Hope you won't have to regret getting sentimental for possibly the first time in your life."

It's late and cold. The hospital looks positively spectral at night, and Toshiro can't help but shudder as he rests his forehead on his bent knees and hugs himself tightly. Just what the fuck is taking him so long? It's been over an hour since he passed by to see Renji only to be told that he wouldn't be let in till the person currently visiting was through, since they had explicitly asked not to be disturbed. Toshiro had automatically assumed it was Kuchiki-taichou the nurse was talking about (that man could easily frighten the whole world into going along with his eccentricities), and resigned himself to wait at the captain's heart's content. This is going way too far though.
Ever since Ichigo was able to bribe – 'persuaded with his natural eloquence and medical competence', as the ginger put it – the nurse assigned to the night shift in ICU, they all obtained an under cover extra permission to actually visit Renji, instead of just watching him sleep through the visitors window. It wasn't much – didn't make all that difference to hold the man's hand, hear his peaceful breathing, smell the illness gradually replacing his usual fresh cologne – in fact it got even worse at times, more painful, harder to bear. Still they had all been eager to exercise their privilege, Kuchiki-taichou always on the frontline. But there's only so much time a sane boss would want to spend at their subordinate's bedside, no matter how guilty they may feel (Toshiro couldn't imagine any reason other than that for Byakuya's attachment). The current situation is particularly hard on Rukia, too; the poor girl is looking every day more drained by having to watch her best friend wear thin in a hospital bed and her beloved brother losing sleep beside him. It's so fucking unfair. If only that day…
Footsteps approaching shake Toshiro out of his reverie.
Well, about goddamn tim – He feels his breath being knocked out of his lungs as he lifts his head to stare at the man coming out of Renji's room.
Ichigo staggers towards him, and that's all indication he gives of having noticed the silver haired youth. His gaze is blurry, eyes bloodshot and glossy beneath heavy, swollen lids. What really throws Toshiro off is the way air comes out of the redhead's parted lips in a low wheeze, sounding much like an agonizing beast's final breaths.
The mere thought prompts Toshiro to bounce on his feet and meet the med student halfway. "Ichigo!" He grabs the taller youth by his forearms and squeezes gently yet firmly. Kurosaki keeps his eyes down. "What's wrong, what happened?" Getting no reaction, Toshiro shakes him lightly, but he's taken aback by Ichigo practically collapsing against him. "Oi, Ichigo!"
It's suddenly warm with the ginger in his arms, and Toshiro has to pull himself together lest his mind drift back to memories it's not wise to bring up right now. Ichigo holds onto him for dear life, which half scares him half fills him with confusing, primitive contentment. It feels like ages since they last were close like this, even though Toshiro knows he's not being honest with himself – there were those times on holidays, at the beach first, and inside the tent later, not to mention the almost-kiss only Byakuya's arrival interrupted a few weeks ago – yet it's not fair of him to indulge and, what?, take advantage of Ichigo's evident distress.
To call that distress would be a sore understatement, Toshiro realizes quick enough the moment his ex's legs give away and, the much smaller footballer being unable to hold them both upright, they tumble in a clumsy tangle and hit the ground.
"Hey, watch it! Damn, Ichigo, what's wrong?"
The redhead's iron grip never wavers; in fact, it all but tightens when Toshiro makes a feeble attempt to dislodge himself from the uncomfortable position. At such close proximity the snowy head has no other choice but to breathe him in, Ichigo's well known musky scent an intoxicating reminder of everything that's gone on between them – all the ups and downs, from befriending to getting horizontal and all the angst that followed. The silky texture of the redhead's button-up shirt feels cool and smooth under his palms, all the more so whenever it stretches with Ichigo's muscles tensing. Toshiro runs his hands down the other's biceps in a way that should be comforting, but only serves to spark his own unease – he's practically feeling his former lover up while he's having a breakdown, and no matter how you look at it, there's no way to make it pass as even remotely appropriate.
Ichigo hides his face in the crook of the smaller youth's neck like a helpless kid, and Toshiro's heart cracks. He's never seen him like this before, not even back when the ginger was being an asshole and taking on weed – even then, he'd thought that was just as low as Unbreakable Ichigo was ever going to stoop. The ginger's breath is laboured, coming out in short warm, humid pants against the hyper-sensitive skin of the athlete's neck, and Toshiro decides it's time to do something and stop being a useless heap of hormone-induced disarray this instant.
"Ichi – " His voice dies in his throat at the disconcerting sound of sniffing into his neck. Oh Lord, what now? He's not prepared for this, damn it. He never studied for this. All the schooling and the record grades and the stupid medals, and he's totally, painfully clueless when it comes to handle the one he loves fucking sniffing in his ear. Toshiro prays to every known deity Ichigo won't go and make it any more obvious, doing something awfully embarrassing like sobbing or letting his wet cheeks come in contact with the footballer's jaw set, because then it'll be no longer possible to just pretend like nothing out of the ordinary is going on, and god only knows how much Toshiro wishes for normalcy at this point in time. Wondering if he looks even half as awkward as he's feeling, the shorty runs tentative fingers through the other's orange mane, and is genuinely surprised when Ichigo relaxes against him, the medic's hands – which had been trapped between their smashed-together chests and fisted into tight balls of suppressed anguish up until now – uncurling and going as far as to pat the front of Toshiro's shirt to get it rid of wrinkles. Well, now that's a progress. Gathering the courage he's still lacking to go all the way, Toshiro finally bends over to speak softly into the calming man's hair. "Let's just get you home."
Ichigo shifts in his arms so abruptly Toshiro takes it he's done something unforgivable and steadily proceeds to beat himself up in his mind. He's just reached the part involving whips and hairshirt when he realizes the carrot-top is actually shaking his head no without pulling away from the embrace, thus digging a hole in Toshiro's breast – but that's fine, really, you don't go and gun for the crying anymore than you do steal candy from babies, so, yeah, whatever.
Ichigo's husky amendment cuts Toshiro's train of thought irreparably.
"Let's go home."

That's how Toshiro finds himself driving them both to the Kurosaki's manor, which is indefinably odd for copious reasons, the two royal ones being, a) he hates cars with a passion, at least when they're not being used for, well, y'know, and b) after a particularly misfortunate driving lesson last year, Ichigo swore out loud he'd never, ever, under no matter what circumstances let the silverette anywhere near a gearshift again. So it's just more testament to how off he is that the redhead would slump inside and robotically sprawl on the passenger's seat, leaving the other man no choice but to take the mission of bringing Ichigo's moping ass back home safe and sound on himself.
All through the ride Toshiro keeps checking the side mirrors as if expecting a giant crocodile to pop out of nowhere on the backseat and chew Ichigo's outstanding head off – the worst thing about this scenario being Ichigo would probably be too absorbed in his blank gazing out of the window to notice. This makes him nervous, this whole situation makes him nervous, and Toshiro drives faster than it's sane to for an inexperienced, scared, emotionally constipated ex sports star such as himself. Great, now I'm sulking too. Must be a bloody virus.
They make it to Kurosaki's place without any accident for no other reason than Ichigo's offending lucky sevens. The ginger is still spaced out when they reach the garage door, and Toshiro has to shake him back to awareness, an aggravated sigh escaping the prodigy's lips in the process. "Oi, dumbface. I need your key to get the car in, and I'd rather you wouldn't make me search you for it."
Finally Ichigo turns and actually looks at him, though his eyes are devoid of any emotion. Giving no other indication of understanding the request, the med student mutely produces a small remote out of his pocket and drops it onto Toshiro's palm, as if implicitly trusting him to hereby take care of even the minutest detail. The whiz kid grunts his discontent, but complies nonetheless.
"Right. Here we go."
Parking, of all things, was never his forte, and Toshiro prays he's not blushing too hard at his clumsy manoeuvres by the time they climb off the car, Ichigo strolling ahead of him then stopping on the porch while waiting for the other to handle even that. Toshiro whimpers – he doesn't want to remind Ichigo they need another key to enter the house – but luckily enough the redhead remembers himself and, upon casting the shorter man a sideways rueful smile, he searches his pockets for his key ring and, there, in they come.
Toshiro breathes hard through his nostrils. There's no comparing that huge mansion to the chock-full hole that was Ichigo and Renji's bedroom back at the campus, but home is where your heart is, as goes the saying, and Toshiro thinks no place on earth proves that righter than the Kurosaki's villa. This place has got such a gloomy atmosphere to it he feels a shiver run down his spine even as Ichigo switches on the light in the hall.
"Do you…" The taller man's voice sounds husky due to lack of using, and suddenly the silverette is no longer sure the prickling of his skin is only imputable to the creepiness of the environment. "Would – I…" The ginger halts, then sighs in defeat. "I'll just go to bed if you don't mind."
"Sure. You want me – ?"
Toshiro stops midsentence, not sure himself what he's suggesting, but Ichigo nods towards him with such naked gratitude in his eyes it feels suddenly right to follow the crestfallen youth upstairs, down the corridor and then in his room, just to be sure he makes it to the bed (no other reason, really, no other, and if the butterflies in his belly are throwing a springtime ball it's just a weird zoological phenomenon that has nothing to do with the subtle way Ichigo's hips sway as he walks, thank you very much).
Toshiro's eyes narrow as he follows the redhead's lead into his bedroom. Apparently the blinds were shut all day, and Ichigo's tentative hands find the edge of the mattress long before two sets of eyes can spot it in pitch dark. The how-very-familiar sound of rustling fabric startles the athlete as the carrot-top's knees buckle and he crawls on top of the covers, then lies down with his front to the wall.
A wary aquamarine gaze falls on the white section of spare bed next to Ichigo, and Toshiro shuffles his feet. His work here is most definitely over with, and he knows he really should get going now, but for some reason he can't, can't bring himself to leave when Ichigo's got his back turned on him – it feels like rejection, it stings like rejection, and Toshiro's breathing is ragged and he can't let go. Long story short, mastermind Hitsugaya is at a total loss for what the fuck to do. Imagine that. He keeps telling himself he's only there to check on his mate, but something is repeatedly getting in the way of his mental workings dragging him back to the start line – what is it again? This, this – then he realizes, this smell, the scent filling up the room blanketing it in its manly essence – sure enough, it's Ichigo's perfume rising and leaving its unmistakable print all over the walls and ceiling and floor, and Toshiro thinks his most likely bodily reaction should roll along the lines of historical arousal, if for no other reason than the old times' sake, but funnily enough he feels closer to tears than he recalls ever being for something so trivial, and it's –
Breaking the unreal quiet, Ichigo turns over to fix his stare on the useless handful of brainfroze genius standing by the bed. His eyes are barely visible in the darkness, though an eloquent warmth radiates off his entire persona as he lazily draws his knees to his chest, crouching in foetal position. Toshiro opens his mouth to say whatever bullshit will choose to make its way out of the breach then, but thank god Ichigo beats him to it.
"C'mere."
Hitsugaya_brain . exe needed to shut down.
The genius sucks air in harshly. His eyes are glued to the dark appendix that is Ichigo's outstretched arm in the dark, mesmerized by the irresistible pull that single gesture entices. His very inner organs are itching to get into bed with the other man, and it's unlike anything Toshiro has ever felt with – well, with anyone but him, of course. Only him.
Ever since I started feeling, I've only ever felt for him. Fuck, how's this for sap.
He's still stalling and being an overemotional teenage girl when Ichigo does the one thing that pushes Toshiro's buttons like an giant robot hand would a hyper-tech control panel.
"Chill. Don't be difficult."
Oh, screw him! I'll show you who's being difficult. Brows furrowed tight together in concentration, the whiz kid climbs on top of the bed with cautious yet purposeful movements, and only stops to kick his shoes off when the master of the house casts him a pointed reminding look. Every minuscule jerk of hips brings him closer to lying flat on his back (facing Ichigo is not an option, thanks a lot). There, just, there, just an endless sequence of useless moves away. Toshiro realizes his breathing is suspiciously loud in the otherwise silent room, and he claps his lips shut opting for apnoea. After all, dying for air deficiency sounds like a much more appealing perspective than making it awkward by leading Ichigo to think this whole predicament is affecting him. Which it is, by the way, though that barely counts as a minor detail the ginger needs not be let in on. Easy, just go easy. Eventually he's settled, the rigid set of his shoulder blades leaving no doubt as to just how uneasy he truly is. Well, stuff this. Lying down with Ichigo after all this time feels so downright weird he's just about arching off the mattress, wary of letting his back and middle and coccyx and, oh god, his butt touch the plain surface of the redhead's bed. Never before had he realized just how intimate an item one's sleeping bed really is. In fact, the weight of said intimacy is crushing him at this very moment.
Then Ichigo sighs, a low, taut growl-ish outtake, and suddenly there's a warm body cuddled by his side, pushing him to roll over, followed within seconds by a light arm casually wound around his waist.
Spooning, spooning, this is, we are, oh god, we're not, he's…
Ichigo presses himself flat against the stiff board that's Toshiro, his chin settling happily in the crook of the shorty's neck. Two long legs bend to fit better against Toshiro's own angled ones as the med student scoots closer still. The silverette's temple throbs, and horrifyingly enough Ichigo is bound to feel that too, since their temples are practically squashed together.
Cool down. Just what did you learn at summer camp on controlling panic attacks?
Ichigo breathes out through his nose, hot, moist breath bumping right into the prodigy's clavicle, and all hell breaks loose.
Okay, fine, so be it. Here endeath the pathetic, miserable life of Hitsugaya Toshiro, former whiz kid and soccer star, whose gravestone you shall write upon: died unaccomplished of soul-consuming guilt and pent-up sexual frustration.
Ichigo mouths something feebly into his neck, and Toshiro's lame cerebral pitter-patter ceases as frozen. Not at what the redhead said, though – that he couldn't even catch – but rather the soft pressure of an undeniably tear streamed cheek against the cold firmness of his own numb skin is what gives him pause.
Oh.
Later on, after Ichigo has cried himself to sleep ever so gently, no shaking nor sobbing quaking his solid frame, Toshiro can allow his own weakness to come out and play.

He wakes up in the morning to a damp pillow and an empty bed. What's overly annoying, his cheeks retain the strained quality that's so typical of newly dried skin even after he splashes water on his face, not to mention the unnerving hint of a blush promising to keep him company through the rest of the day.
It's sometime around noon when Toshiro finally crawls out of the bathroom and downstairs; the sight of Ichigo lazily sitting at the kitchen table munching hot pancakes comes somewhat unexpected.
"Hey. No work today?"
Ichigo's eyes are large and warm when they meet Toshiro's, his calm, aloof attitude a blessing to the athlete's visceral distaste for drama. "Yeah. Thought I'd cut myself some slack for once." The carrot-top beckons at the chair across from his own. "Pancakes?"
Toshiro takes him up on the offer, and that's about it for today's chit-chat. They enjoy their breakfast in companionable silence, then Ichigo offers him a ride home on his way to the hospital. The footballer can't help but sigh unhappily as he gathers the med student is going to spend yet another day at Renji's bedside, but if the redhead feels well enough to drive and look pretty damn handsome in the process, then he figures he's worrying over nothing.
Neither dares bring up the matter of last night, which is just fine by Toshiro. Not Talk About It was always their go-to policy, anyway.

November
To love, Toshiro muses one late rainy afternoon too many spent pacing down the hallways of the local hospital, is to slowly wither away while waiting for something. Depending on the kind of love, it can easily be a medic's comforting word – teal eyes take in the scene of a distraught looking Rukia sitting with her teary stare fixed on Renji's chest to monitor its uneven rise and fall – as well as the tiniest sign of acknowledgement to prove your presence matters. Speaking of which. Right now, Ichigo accurately avoiding eye contact is too painful a sight to behold, and Toshiro forces himself to keep his focus on Pineapple Head instead.
Hell, he knows he's being a girl about this whole thing, and it really, really needs to stop. He's just had it with Ichigo's hot-and-cold attitude; about damn time he, they wipe the slate clean and move the fuck on with their lives.
Right. So that's why you stayed, huh? To move on with your life. His conscience mocks him cruelly, revolting against the lies diet Toshiro has put it on for far too long now.
Shut up. Here's some more denial to feed off.
"You guys, please, everyone… will you just leave us alone for a sec? Got secretive dirty stuff to share with Midget, and it's not for the faint of heart ta hear."
Wrenching him out of his daydream abruptly, Renji's raspy voice gets right through his brain and imposes itself as a major priority. After all, ever since he woke up the policeman has been trying to regain full control over his body functions, seeing as the lasting coma and aftermath shock therapy caused even the simplest deed to grow into some damn challenging task, and paying him their utmost attention is the very least his friends can do to support the tattooed man through his convalescence. Scolding himself for his previous distraction, Toshiro steps closer to the bed as Renji calls out for him, none as feebly as one might be led to believe given his condition.
The pineapple head waits until the others – Ichigo, Momo and an ever reluctant Rukia – drag themselves out to lift up on one elbow and address the ex footballer, a tentative crooked smirk arching lips that still look too pale to express glee convincingly. "So. It seems we're – " Sure enough, Renji is soon cut off by a fit of coughing. Toshiro is at his side in a flash.
"Don't overdo it, you idiot. Just stay put."
The cop shakes his head, determination giving his once sharper features that aura of pig-headedness that suits him so well (much better than the hospital weakling look anyway). "I just wanted to say thanks. For, y'know, looking after that fucking Berry while I was out." Renji grimaces, and Toshiro can seem to read his very thoughts, the images playing at the back of his mind through the narrowed slits of those coal-coloured eyes. Suddenly he knows just where the little lecture is heading, and wouldn't need to hear it anymore, but Abarai sees fit to elaborate. "I've gone pretty hard on him as of late, and even though it was all meant in good will to, y'know, knock some sense in that bloody dense skull of his, I'm still happy you were there ta pick him off the floor." A shade of pain crosses the redhead's features in an instant and he shifts to lie back down, Toshiro's stern glance enough of an admonishment of its own. When Renji speaks again, he sounds strained with the effort to adjust. "Damn asshole is my bestest pal, but he hasn't acted like himself in for-fucking-ever. The way he screwed around with that poor Arisawa chick, worrying her sick she may have gotten knocked up, was like the top – "
!
Toshiro doesn't even muster the strength to feel surprised, though he's actually numb by shock. His voice sounds nothing like his own as he summons the energy to choke out: "What do you mean, knocked up? They thought Arisawa was – " the word hangs in the air, thick with meaning, if unspoken. Renji catches the drift in no time.
"Spawning a mini-Berry soon, yeah. Thank god 'twas just a hoax, imagine having two Ichigos around." The tattooed man makes a feeble attempt at a derisive snort, though his distressed state, on one side, and Toshiro's unresponsiveness, on the other, cause the laugh to die out before long. "I get it he didn't have the balls to tell you, huh? Fucking chicken will hafta lend me an ear, 'cause if I'm in for the long woe trip here, then sure as all hell so's he."
Toshiro's chair screeches as it slides on the floor, the silverette bolting upright. "Don't." He's not sure how it is he manages to sound firm and pretty much expressionless about something that's buzzing in his skull so loud he's having troubles getting what Renji's saying, but it's not like a genius – or anyone for that matter – to question their luck. "Don't tell him anything. It doesn't matter."
Renji eyes him sceptically to say the least, but scoffs a reluctant consent nevertheless. "If you say so." As Hitsugaya moves to walk out, though, the convalescent man can't hold it in anymore. "Oi, Midget."
Let go, Toshiro'd shout if he had his way. Let go, let it go, let me go. So I can pretend it doesn't matter and make myself believe it.
No use. Blunt and inexorable comes Abarai's calling. "I don't even know why you should care at this point, but, for the record, they broke it off. Berry and sporty girl, I mean. Turns out she is not preggy after all, our ruggy red dumps her faster than you can say 'hotpants'." Bitter amusement stains Renji's tone. "That's Kurosaki 0.2 for you, I guess."
Toshiro stalls in the doorway just as long as it takes him to compose himself enough to make up an excuse for his hasty retreat, then shoots, head bowed, past his friends left awaiting outside, heading straight for the ward exit. He doesn't think he could share Ichigo's space, breathe in the air he breathes right now; any more sitting at Renji's bedside faking flawless camaraderie is more than he can bear.
Torn between hurting over the unsettling discovery and pondering Ichigo's mixed signals – so I was good enough to hold him through the night, but he wouldn't trust me with what had him down in the first place, broods the sportsman – he wanders aimlessly around the hospital compound till he finds himself lost amidst the parking lot, his feet knowing the way to oblivion better than his hyper-sensitive conscious. I really don't wanna have to do this, the silverette muses, and he's not certain himself what it is he's running from, just…
Just, he's yet again tired. Tired of the lifelong wait. Tired of withering away while waiting for his roll of dice.
If he had a say on the matter, he'd give up feeling for Kurosaki Ichigo without so much as the bat of an eyelash; being he's not delusional, Toshiro reckons his second best shot is to try and keep his goddamn distance, take his chance at that kind of from-afar love you only ever hear of in girly novels. The kind of love driving you to say things like, "I'm leaving for your own good". Geez. Toshiro's nose wrinkles in protest. Okay, so maybe in time he can learn to cope with his sheer revulsion for heroic love rhetoric, while he's at it.
No. Focus. Distance is the word.
Distance is the word.

December
"So, we're throwing my WelcAmongsTheLivin' party in a super special location, thought to fit our whole big family, finally reunited in its time of need – "
"Welca what? Don't use the electrocuted brain cells to cover up for your inbred idiocy."
"You mean my electroffed brain cells, o my gingerbread buddy!"
"Just what's the plan, Pineapple?"
"Us. Mid-winter snowfalls. An army of hot chocolate cups and pastries to eat by the fireplace – "
"Pastries? Don't you mean marshmallows?"
"They go much better with hot choc!"
"Okay, fine, you insufferable girls, marshmallows it is. Now cut the crap and say you'll come."
"Come where, dammit?"
"We're having white winter hols! Christmas was fucking depressing this year, what with me being stuck in bed, Pretty Face AWOL and Bosom Baa-san running errands 'round the world, so we're just gonna celebrate our personal Latemas… "
"Latemas?"
"Please, no instigating, girls. We may never get to the point as it is."
"… Gotei style on the move! I say we go on a ski holiday with all the trimmings. Ya strays in?"
As if on cue, several pairs of eyes lay on Toshiro simultaneously, making the young man want to scream and run for his life. Sadly, there's little even the coldest heartless bastard would deny a friend who spent fucking Christmas in a hospital bed with rubber pipes coming out of his body, so the former athlete shrugs – slowly, deliberately, as to leave no doubt what his intentions might be – and is awarded with Renji's heart-lifting elation.
"That's settled, then! All aboard!"

On December 20th, Ichigo forgets all of Toshiro's birthday for the first time in five years.
Not that it matters, anyway. The footballer thinks nothing of it. Well, guess I didn't jump the distance train on my own, part of him deadpans, and that's about it.
Too bad some other part can't help but wonder just how long's the ride going to be.

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