Adult-FanFiction.org : Bleach

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
- 3
- 4
Heartless

Part 4

Solid Water
…Hey yo, I know of some things that you ain't told me

Hey yo, I did some things but that's the old me…
A year later, as he is skating outside the village, a magnificent sleigh appears in front of him, driven by a woman so beautiful and mesmerizing, that the boy cannot resist the temptation and approaches her. The Snow Queen, drawn seemingly from a world beyond reality, takes him in her arms and kisses him only twice, as the third kiss will inevitably kill him. Climbing on the sled, they take off towards the Queen's palace, leaving everything that the child has ever known behind.
The morning light is clear and crispy, palpable as a thin veil of water as Toushiro pulls the curtains back and allows the stark white sunrays to hit his smooth, almost translucent skin. Unsurprisingly, his flesh immediately catches the gentle illumination, glowing faintly under its tender caress as though just to remind the side viewer of the way snow reflects every spark and gleam during the most serene hours of the day, blinding one with the power of the milliards of tiny crystals and their cold refusal to absorb warmth. Gazing up at the cloudless sky that is stretching far up and in the distance like an endless ocean of trembling blue, the employer takes merely a moment to try and remember what it was that used to affect him so much about this scene, what had once moved him, touched him, shaken him about this panorama alone... The effort is too much, though, and he loses interest instantly, focusing instead on the landscape that is spreading more closely outside his office. His petrous eyes penetrate through the nude window easily and a bit languidly, and he pauses to contemplate the immaculate workmanship of the bronze railings that are surrounding his balcony. There's no flaw in the perfect little circle. Nothing broken. Nothing torn.
Just like the day the bars were first erected there.
A tiny curve at the end of Hitsugaya's mouth is the only indication of approval that appears on his face, and then he pulls away, heading back to his desk as though nothing has happened. He seats himself in his chair with aristocratic grace, demonstrating elegance that he has no idea how to appreciate anymore, but which has been carved into his mind and body so deeply and so beyond repair, that he seems to know no way around it anymore. Fingertips tapping along the ends of the arm-rests for a few seconds, he leans forwards with a sigh, metallic turquoise swiping across the wooden surface in front of him before pausing on the one object that seems to evoke some kind of an interest.
The mirror appears… almost surreal, really. It's not very big, with an elliptic main part and a long handle stretching down from the head. Picked up, it weighs a lot more than it looks, and Toushiro never dares to hold it with just one hand. After all… it's quite an antique, isn't it? It deserves at least that much of a respect for surviving this long.
As he lifts the object now, the boy can't help the dull hint of reverence that sparkles in his chest, albeit it is more like a recollection of some old and forbidden emotion rather than a real, actual feeling. Supporting the back of the mirror with his left palm, Hitsugaya holds the thing up till he can see his own reflection, but he doesn't really focus on the image beyond the looking-glass, allowing himself a few moments to admire the fine make of one of his most precious possessions instead. The frame and the handle are very thick, yet brittle and ethereal to the touch, like foam that is ready to indent from the smallest pressure, and the young man inhales slowly at the sight of it, resisting the urge to run his fingertips over every little engraving, each figure, curve, pattern… He doesn't need to touch to know what the dozens of beautiful figures represent, because he's memorized them all: every divine celestial creature, every fantasy character, every impersonated myth, legend, fable… He's seen the faces of the angels, mermaids and spirits so many times by now, that he has them all etched in his mind like letters in the bark of a young tree. Sometimes, when he has nothing better to do and he just muses over what used to be, what he once had and then lost, what he gave up, but also achieved… sometimes, when his mind reaches back for those things, he thinks about the snow-like, pure white body of the mirror and how it seems to hold magic in itself… How this colour, this symbol of innocence has always been so much more than what meets the eye and how few have ever understood… how few will ever understand…
Meerschaum. A meerschaum mirror. Such a precious, stunning thing… Except he can only remember how he used to admire its beauty. He can only remember… nothing else…
Toushiro's lashes flutter as he scowls and his lips part as though he wants to say something, to speak up, but no real words come to him and he just cants the mirror back so he can look at it directly. He stares at the person that faces him – a boy static, cold, white - and he wonders whether he has the right to do what he wants to do. But conscience doesn't come to him, doesn't nudge his frozen insides like it would've done before, and he moves one hand so that it's hovering just above the smooth, cold glass surface in front of him. He considers giving a warning of some sort, announcing his intentions first, the way etiquette requires of him, but the never-ending exhaustion that his body is enduring every single moment of every single day doesn't spare him its weight and he keeps his taciturn mouth closed.
And then he touches it…
The contact is brief and he frowns when he makes it, his loosely splayed fingertips flattening against the unwelcoming surface momentary before tiny, crackling tendrils of frost begin to gather around the skin. He watches the mosaic spread like a silver infection for a few seconds, and then he pulls his hand back, one thin brow arching curiously.
"You can't keep this up forever, you know," Toushiro points out evenly, tilting his head to the side as he contemplates his reflection. "This silent treatment is getting old. Have you considered what happens if I never come to you again?"
His words are interrupted when he hears steps and his gaze slowly lifts to the door to see who is approaching his office. The tuft of orange hair that emerges uncertainly in his line of vision doesn't surprise him and he carefully puts the mirror back on the desk, pulling his hands in front of himself to intertwine their fingers together as he eyes his visitor expectantly.
"May I come in?" Ichigo asks softly and Toushiro huffs, unimpressed by the polite tone.
"When the door is closed, you just barge in, but when it's opened, you remember to ask, huh?" the boy mutters quietly, killing every last bit of spunk that his employee has gathered. "You're really something, aren't you?"
"Well, you're not helping much…" the carrot-top trails off awkwardly, but walks further inside the room anyways, carrying a stack of paper with himself as though it's an uncomfortable extension of his long, tanned arms. His brows eyes are shifting nervously between the dark blue carpet beneath his feet and his boss' unblinking stare, but instead of turning around and making a run for it once he had deposited the heap of documents on Toushiro's desk, the man just straightens up and clears his throat in preparation to speak. "I wasn't entirely sure if I would find you here today. You disappeared so suddenly on Friday, I tried to find you, but the weather-"
"I told you to go home," the boy cuts him off with slight impatience, referring quite bluntly to the text message. "And I also pointed out rather clearly that while I'm sure a lot of people will mourn this sad truth, I was not, in fact, trying to kill myself." He lifts his chin a little, remembering that he has to now smile to denote that this is a joke, and pulls his lips in the needed shape, hating how hollow and annoying this theater really feels. "Shit happens, as you say. Next time, if you're more careful, I might as well fall off for real, and then you wouldn't have to torture yourself with so many questions any longer."
"What were you trying to do?" Ichigo insists with irritating sensibility, his face twisting in an obstinate, overly-emotional expression. Toushiro finds it exasperating that they are still clinging to this ridiculous topic and makes a mental note to improve his efforts in dry humour, because apparently the irony hasn't been appreciates as he has hoped. "I find you standing bare-footed on the edge of your own balcony, who knows how many feet off the ground, and you expect me to believe-" Ichigo's rant is cut short when he turns to gesture towards the balcony in question, his arm hanging loosely in the air for a second before he drops it back down and turns completely towards the windows. "What the fuck?"
"Mr. Kurosaki, language, please." Toushiro scolds calmly, much like a mother than is reproaching her son, but despite the remark, he doesn't do much more than observe as his employee stumbles, slack-jawed and beyond bewildered, towards the balcony and the perfect bronze railings that surround it. The carrot-top doesn't really reach his destination, managing only a few steps before turning back to the smaller male with an incredulous expression on his face and what seems to be some kind of a deep indignation paining his body.
"What happened here?"
"I beg your pardon?" Toushiro replies with a tasteful raise of his brows. The other man doesn't seem impressed by the show, however, returning to the desk where his employer is still sitting with a slightly flustered tan face and fists that are clenched loosely by his sides.
"How did you get that fixed on such a short notice?" Ichigo hisses and the boy's lips stretch in a mechanical little smirk when the familiar titillation of amusement teases his chest from the inside.
"Mr. Kurosaki, I sincerely do not fathom your interest in minor details. I understand how such enthusiasm and energy could be considered vital for certain jobs, but I would appreciate if you saved that gusto for completing your work rather than standing menacingly over me as though there is something that I owe you that I haven't given you in time…"
The words have the needed effect and the carrot-top visibly shrinks, his features relaxing as he lets his shoulders slump with a deep sigh. He eyes the boy for a few seconds, brown eyes shifting from side to side as though he's trying to find a weak spot to see through, and then he just shakes his head and looks up at the ceiling.
"I've got no idea why I even care." He points out with bitter regret, turning around on his heel as he says that. Before he has managed to make even a single step though, Toushiro is on his feet, his brows furrowed in a slight frown and lips tightened at the ends with something akin to hesitation.
"Mr. Kurosaki, just one more thing before you go…" the boy enunciates carefully, staring with a vacant, mechanical gaze at the broad back that is now facing him. "I hope I can rely on your discretion, yes?"
He quite truthfully expects an instant confirmation of that question, a nod, an obedient gesture of agreement of some sort… So when instead of doing any of those things, Ichigo just snorts and side steps so he can look back at his employer with a half-offended, half-concerned expression on his face, Toushiro can't help the mild feeling of uncertainty that washes over him at the retort he receives.
"I am in no way obliged to stay silent." The carrot-top claims rather insolently, the side of his mouth twisting up in a tiny, challenging smile that fills the boy up with confusion. Hitsugaya's lips flatten a little in something between a purse and a curious pout and he narrows his eyes as though trying to discern what this is all about.
"Certainly." Toushiro says slowly, mildly, folding his arms in front of his chest as he makes his way around the desk and stands in front of his subordinate. "But it is important that you do."
He is convinced that the emphasis in his words is enough to pass forth the message that he wants to deliver, but it doesn't really seem like it. Letting out a short, fragile laughter, Ichigo shakes his head once again and then lifts a hand to press his thumb and index finger to the bridge of his nose.
"If you want me to keep your secrets, you should at least give me something in return. A little honesty would be nice, for example." The man notices unrelentingly, seeming oddly tired by the conversation as he removes his digits from his face and allows a caustic little smile to graze his lips. "I've got this feeling that you're toying with me, pushing to see how far I will go, what I'll do, how it'll affect me, and I'm not enjoying this game one bit. I'm not sure that you'll get this, because you seem to have some serious problem putting yourself in the place of anybody else, but what you're doing right now is like some kind of a constant mind fuck, with no real reason and no real aim, and although it's probably not the most honourable thing to admit, I've got to say, it's slowly getting to me…" Ichigo tucks his lips between his teeth for a second, shaking his head again as his eyes draw up to some spot above his boss' head, unfocused, entreating almost… "For God's sake, I barely slept this weekend… I kept coming back to me, this whole-… This fear that I didn't do enough. That I didn't search for you long enough. That I didn't push myself harder, when I could've and should've… Every minute, every second of every day, I sat there, wondering when I'd hear about your death on the news, or when your lifeless face will appear in the morning papers, underneath a blood-freezing headline that I'll know is my fault, and now… Now, after all this, you expect me to just brush everything off, like nothing's ever happened?" he scoffs humourlessly, jerking one shoulder in a shrug. "I'm sorry. It doesn't work this way."
Toushiro has to admit he is surprised, more than unpleasantly surprised by what he's just heard as he lets his arms drop by his sides, eyes slightly widened as though trying to perceive everything that his mind, his soul, his heart wouldn't. A gelid, wayward sensation glissades under his skin, a mix of power and venom that moves and twists in some absurd need to break through, to make itself known to this ignorant person, who has no modesty and spits like a fool in the face of the nature's very laws as though his own beliefs matter. As though his pathetic existence is more than a stain on the face of the earth.
Since when? Since when does anything not work the way the Toushiro wants it to? Does this guy have any idea who he's talking to?
No. Of course not.
He hasn't got a clue.
Toushiro's chest swells with a deep inhalation as he tries to keep everything in check, suppressing the dull commotion that comes with the umbrage of being belittled like this, and he nods his head, not sure how to respond just yet. Some ancient traces of his once brisk and effervescent temper coil beneath layers and layers of ice, prompting him to puck back a biting remark, to respond in some way, but the intention clogs his throat instead of bursting free from him and he ends up speechless, apathetic, unmovable. His lips part at the intense, blunt look that his man is giving him, yet the desire to take the challenge, to see where this could lead him, snaps similarly a fragile flower stem and Hitsugaya just lets out a tiny huff instead of an answer. If he had to be completely honest with himself, he would have to admit that it bothers him a little how sincere and truthfully worried Ichigo appears to be… Much like a child that's trying to stop his parent from making a bad choice, from picking the wrong road and ending up with regrets that no one deserves and no one's ever truly earned for themselves. How… touching.
Touching…
Touching was the correct word, right? Because sometimes he forgets, sometimes the terms evade him, the way distant facts and useless information often do after years of obsolesce… Matsumoto finds it more than a little scary that this is happening – such lapses, such inability to recall the true definition of the simplest things terrify her and she often ends up reacting in overly impulsive ways when she catches him faltering, searching for words… He, of all people, shouldn't be at a loss as to what to say and how to say it, she claims, daunted by his listlessness and lethargic detachment; how can he not see, how can he not understand, after all these years…
…that some wounds should be left to heal on their own. That certain types of pain must be endured, not suppressed with benumbing salves and dubious ointments.
Sometimes… sometimes suffering is for the best. It makes you who you are. It makes you grow up, change, mature…
Toushiro usually tries not to roll his eyes when she preaches him like that, because he recalls that she is who she is and can't help herself. Ichigo is the same, the boy reckons, he can't abstain from trying to 'do the right thing', as they call it nowadays. Instead of thinking about his own problems – which he undoubtedly has - and his own position in this company – which is most certainly on the line here – the carrot-top launches chest first, mind second to aid and assist and care for other's well-being…
Hm, yes, just like-… just like-…
The idea sends Toushiro in a momentary reverie over someone else, another person that once tried to restrain him from doing something stupid, albeit necessary… And that tickling returns to him, the morbid amusement that the white-haired lad has trouble recognizing at certain occasions. Maybe if he could feel, he would find all these far-fetched semblances endearing, the unneeded concern sweet in its own deplorable way, but as it is he can only guess the name of what he's supposed to experience. He recalls it used to be a pleasant emotion once, this 'endearment', something both warm and a little painful, likes a spiced up dish, a strong alcohol beverage, a snip of cinnamon and pepper…
Useless, really. Simply useless.
Although… Perhaps…
Biting the side of his lip, Toushiro tries to summon every bit of acting skill that he once possessed. The image of that small, overly-susceptible being, ready to ravish, to tremble, to dance and laugh boisterously, not unlike the seas, the oceans and the earth that spread unbidden outside, and beyond, and within him-… The picture of that creature swims behind his eyes like a piece of a gorgeous, albeit incomprehensible art and he resists the urge to touch his chest, to search for the lost heartbeat again… He's never felt the need to make sure there's no pulse before… not before the appearance of this curious and clumsy employee of his anyways, and although he's sure there's not need to be concerned, he can sense the presence of a dark cloud as it flits across his features, only to dissipate into the nothingness a trice later, vanishing along with the aerial remnants from the past that the boy has spent so much time shuffling into…
He looks up at Ichigo, prompting his eyes to clear up a bit from the uniform mist that usually enshrouds them, and allows his brows to knit very gently, very cautiously, like he's maybe hesitating, wondering whether to 'open' himself up like this. What a joke… He allows his pale lips to part, the tip of his small tongue pressing languidly against the end of his mouth for a second, and then he steps closer, closer to his companion, and gazes up similarly to a kid that's begging to be spoiled. He breathes out – cold air, but Ichigo doesn't need to know that – and gathers his arms around his waist loosely, shoulders rising demurely as the crystalline turquoise of his own limpid irises quivers against the sight of the slightly widened brown orbs above him.
Once upon a time this was all he needed to do to attain what he wanted. A tiny smile, a miniscule, sad curve of his mouth, a flash of desperation across those brittle features, and there wasn't a single man in the entire universe who could say 'no' to him. He knows what he is doing now is nothing in comparison to the effervescent, dulcet boy from his past, who possessed no shame and no qualms in utilizing this ineffable ability of his to charm on whoever stood in his way… But even these current efforts Toushiro is putting into this spectacle are bound to have an effect, they must be enough. He doesn't have to be who he was one to get his way, does he? He needn't go back to his old self… His old self, disgustingly full of emotion, full of life and affection, and curiosity… That Toushiro who used to whisper 'please' and the world shattered to pieces to grant his wishes, he's gone, unwanted now. That Toushiro, whose laugh rang with the wind and vibrated in the kiss of the snowflakes, ticking the nude tree branches, brushing against the face of the shushing rivers and cuddling against the sprawled body of the earth, he no longer exists. That Toushiro who knew how to cry and how to make the skies weep along with him, bitterly, endlessly, shaken with pain and sorrow… he's just a memory now.
A naïve, forgotten memory…
Hitsugaya swallows and then utters softly, making sure to sound resigned this time, uncertain…
"I'm asking you to do this for me." And the words spill from his lips in a cascade, sweet, sweet sounds that slips from him and caress Ichigo's ears. He can see the carrot-top's face flush a bit, a hot flame flickering behind the employee's usually cashmere gaze, and the man's hands lift up ever so slowly between their bodies, seemingly hesitant as to whether to proceed or not. Soon enough the need to touch, to feel, obviously takes over the previous shyness and the taller male grips Toushiro's narrow hips, squeezing them lightly. The boy's lids fall a bit, a dull victorious sensation burning the edges of his lips in attempt to summon a smile, but before he can give in to the unexpected temptation, the carrot-top is pushing him back, increasing the distance that separates them.
"Don't do that again." Ichigo utters quietly, averting his gaze as a tiny frown furrows his brows. There is a pause, but it lasts no more than a broken couple of seconds, and then the young worker turns around mutely and leaves the office, a pair of quiescent jade eyes watching his retreat in a mix of emotionless wonderment and dull interest.
As soon as the orange-haired lad is out of his sight, Hitsugaya lets the usual veil of apathy drape over him and makes his way back to his desk, placing both palms on its end as he gazes down at the mirror that is still lying in the center of the piece of furniture, the white, exotic antique resting there among tons of plain paper and half-used pens.
Then Toushiro bends forward at the waist, lowering his head ever so slowly till his mouth is mere inches away from the one of his reflection, and he whispers softly, almost maliciously against his inexpressive duplicate's pale lips.
"I guess I just found myself someone else to play with."
He watches the clear glass ices over where his breath has touched it and it makes him smirk lop-sidedly, almost contently really, as he slumps back in his chair with another freezing cold sigh.

"Hey…" she whispers mellifluously in his ear, a set of thin fingers running soothingly down his arm. "Hey, it's okay. You don't have to be nervous."
"I'm not nervous."
"Really?" Orihime says, raising an incredulous brow. "You're not nervous?"
Ichigo lets out some indefinite noise as he lifts a hand to adjust his tie, a pained expression twisting his features despite his best intentions.
"Okay. Maybe a little bit," he agrees exhaustedly as he casts his fiancée a small smile. "It's been a rough month."
A rough and very, very confusing month, indeed…
"I know, honey, but I'm sure it'll get better soon." She mutters with that trademark optimism that makes people grin against their will whenever she's around, and he find himself victim to that magic as she pats his shoulder with her dainty little palm. "Don't worry so much. It's just a party. No one is going after you tonight, you just need to let it go this once."
She's right, he knows, about everything… They should be having fun, laughing, and relaxing, and enjoying the free food rather than stressing over when and how his boss will end up appearing. Their attendance here is neither compulsory, nor required, they could leave at any time, at any moment if they so decided… To be honest, he's feeling almost guilty for asking his girlfriend to come here with him as his plus one, because other than him and possibly Kyouraku, who else does she know around here? What could possibly give her the pleasant experience he's promised her, or the good mood that such events are meant to leave you with?
He's been telling himself he should just skip all these troubles and spend a nice evening with his fiancée ever since he got the invitation, but other than torturing himself till the very last moment, he's done nothing to denote he's decided not to go to the cocktail party that so many have already declared they would like to attend. This is a big event, he claims as an excuse – the publishing house's birthday – and the whole company is celebrating today… no matter that it's the middle of the week or that tomorrow they still have to go to work after getting up at an ungodly hour. It's a good chance to meet people and make connections, especially since he wants to break through to the newspaper or the magazine sector rather than stay under Hitsugaya's slipper for the rest of his existence, and he'd be damned if he missed a career opportunity because he was lazy. He'd fucking regret it for the rest of his life…
…or so he keeps telling himself for his own sanity's sake…
The enormous, baroque-style hall that his boss has hired especially for the occasion, is jammed to the brim with chatty people, the shuffling of feet and the soft clink of glasses filling up the free molecules of space in a way that makes everything oddly vivacious, heavy with iridescent emotion. The place is appropriately spacious, the golden illumination, the tall windows and the high ceiling stealing away any sense of crowdedness that could come with the high number of people. The suits and the long evening gowns that the guests have been delicately prompted to don for the occasion make everything seem like an image, filched greedily from a modern fairy tale, the atmosphere, the elegance, the soft classic music that's playing at the background, all building up an air of exquisiteness and finesse that scream Toushiro's name with every detail, thread, crumb that build this little fantasy world.
And yet, even when all is so carefully thought over and the smallest things are designed to match the manners and taste of the one person who's organized all this, the young prince that rules over this palace is curiously lacking. The hall is full, the party has been going at a decent speed the last hour or so, and still, no trace of Hitsugaya or his dazzling right-hand…
Distracted momentary by a pair of waiters that are passing gracefully past him, Ichigo reaches to snatch himself and his date a drink from the floating silver trays, the obligatory smile appearing on his face as he hands Orihime a glass of champagne and tries not to appear uncomfortable by the quick peck on the lips that she gives him in return for the gesture. He'd have to lie through his teeth if he said that the girl didn't look positively beautiful tonight. With her long, bright-red dress with bare back and low-neckline, the extravagant, loose bun, in which she's arranged her hair and her warm smile, she's managed to attract more than a few male glances by now, and none of them has been anything even remotely fleeting or innocent. He knows he should feel proud, glad that he has been able to capture the heart of such a gentle, yet kind-hearted creature, but other than restlessness and discomfort, there's nothing else filling up his insides as he awkwardly wraps his arm around her waist and lets her snuggle close into his chest. The glass feels cold and slick in his hold, numbing his fingertips as he balances his drink precautious, and the low temperature that radiates from the champagne almost severs through his skin in comparison to Orihime's warm body, pressed against his own. The contrast is really… really quite painful.
He lifts his gaze from his fiancée's smiling face just in time to see a familiar short figure emerging from the hall's entrance, thin brows knitted together with calm disapproval as he walks inside, followed Matsumoto, whose mouth seems to be moving in a non-stop fashion behind him. The boy doesn't look particularly interested in what she's blabbering about, but the effort to ask her to stop appears to be too grueling, so he just lets her continue, snatching a glass of wine from the nearest tray as he makes his way through the groups of people, who respectfully pull back to allow him to come through.
Toushiro doesn't look like he's put a lot of effort into a more formal attire, the white dress shirt he's now wearing in no way more special than the ones he usually dons for work, the only difference being that the thin sleeves are currently rolled back to his elbows to bare two pristinely white forearms, delicate wrists and slim little fingers. The tie around the boy's neck is knotted loosely, killing any chance for the whole outfit to appear even remotely prim, but the expression on his face is so starchy and so unreadable, that no matter what he's put on, there's no way anyone could relax around the little ice prince. In complete contrast to her superior, Matsumoto is like a bright star, emerging on a lightless night sky. Clad in a long, dark purple dress with a slash up to her mid-thigh, she is more stunning than a model, her dazzling smile and long strawberry blond hair giving her a sort of natural look that few women manage to sustain while looking like this.
"Pretty, isn't she?" Orihime whispers playfully in his ear, but the small 'hmm?' that escapes the carrot-top's lips is about all the answer he manages to give her. His eyes are glued on Toushiro now, his idle saunter between the crowds and the thin smiles that he gives upon greeting his colleges, for while the sight is in no way as dramatic as Matumoto's flamboyant appearance, there's something about this exquisite, almost frighteningly fragile air that his boss unleashes around himself, that is simply beyond comparison, beyond the mundane fabric of mortality… Hitsugaya is stunning in a cold, harsh way, that at the same time is so sad, so distanced from everybody around him, that the rough lines fade, the jagged edges peel off, and all that is left for the eyes to see, for the heart to feel, is the absolutely ethereal beauty that lies beneath.
He spots Kyouraku making his way towards the boy from the opposite end of the hall, and he's surprised to see the man leading a young lady with him. Then the perfectly arranged bun, the stern rectangle glasses and the classy blue gown she's wearing make something inside Ichigo's head click, and he recalls his friend's endless rants about his gorgeous and overly-serious assistant Nanao Ise: the one girl the older man seems to never manage to win over…
The thought makes the carrot-top chuckle as he finally fits Kyouraku's vague descriptions with the actual person and admits to himself that his gym buddy's compliments simply do the lady no justice. Even from this distance, Ichigo can tell that Nanao does indeed possess a unique kind of appeal. Her beauty is simple and immaculate – the charm of a magnificent ancient goddess, whose allure doesn't strike you instantly, but comes gently and generously if you just allow yourself a moment to spare… She's the perfect date one could take to an occasion such as this one. Elegant, radiant and self-controlled, she's the epitome of perfection in its most pristine and unattainable form – the exact thing that certain hard-boiled womanizers would die to conquer.
…And then Kyouraku and his companion reach Toushiro and something quite odd happens.
At first glance the event isn't so extraordinary – probably just a pretentious gesture of respect that an employee knows to give his boss in order to keep the superior's benevolence - but knowing his friend's character, Ichigo just can't seem to comprehend how what he's seeing now could possibly be real. The usually teasing and laid-back expression melts off Kyouraku's face, replaced by an earnest, darker one, and he bows his head ever so slightly – not in greeting… in admission of Toushiro's higher power. The boy does nothing to acknowledge the recognition, merely pulling the end of his mouth in a wry, paper-thin smile, and then turns to Nanao, something akin to expectation flashing across the frozen features. Without wasting a single second, the woman pinches the sides of her dress and makes an elegant curtsy, eyes lowering with sincere reverence for the much shorter and younger person that is standing before her, and then she is straightening up again, not a single trace of discomfort or reluctance visible on her face.
What the fuck was that?
"Honey," comes the familiar voice, a hint of bewilderment painting the mood of those words as Orihime leans in the carrot-top's direction. "You're staring."
"Huh?" blinking a couple of times, Ichigo turns to look at his date, mouth struggling to produce a grin despite the fact that he feels honestly disorientated. Orihime obviously notices that fact, because she takes the glass of champagne from his hand and puts it away on the table besides them, lifting her hand to press it against his forehead for a moment.
"Are you feeling alright?"
"I'm perfect, don't worry about me," Ichigo manages awkwardly, clearing his throat when his fiancée removes her knuckles from his skin. "I'm a just a little-… You know."
"I do?" she asks him incredulously, the first signs of the infamous 'worry pout' beginning to wrinkle the end of her lips. Ichigo opens his mouth to say something comforting, but before a single word has managed to leave his lips, another voice cuts through their conversation, sharp and cold as an ice blade.
"You must be Kurosaki's fiancée, is that right? It's really nice meeting you at last." Toushiro's gelid gaze flips absently – quite disinterestedly, really – over Orihime's form and he bares a dutiful line of teeth, looking rather doll-like for a second before he drops the smile to a lazy smirk and allows his irises to shift smoothly back to his employee's face. "Ichigo's told me so much about you."
What did he just call me?!
"Mr. Hitsugaya?!" Inoue hiccups and for the first time the carrot-top realizes that he hasn't actually told her who his boss is out of the enormous crowd that is surrounding them. Naturally, she looks shocked, staring down at the incredibly small, limber person before her and wondering – like many have before her – how someone so young could climb all the way to this impossible position and remain taintless. Unblemished by the unholy fingertips of the cruel business world that has bred and then fed on him like a parasite.
"That would be me." The boy nods mercifully, crisp emerald orbs remaining fixed on Ichigo for another moment before he turns back to Orihime. His smile crinkles softly like a shattered crust of frost as he offers his hand to her girl, the deceivingly benign expression on his face holding something distorted and misplaced in its thin outlines. "Pleasure."
Pulling her lips up awkwardly, Inoue shifts to extend her right hand for the handshake, but in a fluid, unexpectedly fast movement, Toushiro has grasped the girl's left palm in his own one, hyaloid blue-and-green eyes leveling with hollow interest the simple engagement ring that adorns her slender fourth finger. Ichigo can feel his fiancée tense beside him, her eyes widening slightly at the unexpectedly cold skin that is currently touching hers, but she doesn't let a sound till the white-haired boy is satisfied.
"That's a beautiful little jewel." Hitsugaya comments finally, letting go of the very much flabbergasted Orihime and nodding his head in ostensible approval. There's no warmth in the flimsy congratulation that leaves his lips afterwards, but Ichigo hardly noticed, stupidly caught up for a moment in the way Toushiro lifts his hand to tug gently on the short strands under his ear. The motion is completely involuntary – possibly a habit that Ichigo hasn't spotted before – but the sight of the thin, frail fingertips, running across equally tender and smooth alabaster skin, is oddly enticing. Like an ephemeral peek of something forbidden and untouchable that the human nature can't help but crave with earth-born greed. "Kyouraku tells me you've been together since high school, is that right?"
Usually, Inoue would immediately beam at one such question, rushing to tell the overused tale of how they met and how their relationship survived all these years, but for some reason the usual excitement does not irradiate the girl's face, making her look rather uneasy and reluctant instead.
"I guess sometimes you're just lucky enough to meet your one and only early in life instead of after many attempts and errors…" she mutters with a half-shrug, to which Toushiro musters another mechanical smile.
"That is indeed an interesting theory," the boy agrees with a hint of condescension, hands gathering calmly behind his back in a manner that makes him look even younger than usual. "And you're telling me than neither of you has ever… Tried a relationship with anyone else?"
Under the pressure of the glass-like, mildly mocking gaze, Ichigo feels somewhat ridiculous, reduced to a mere teenager who is trying to persuade his parents to let him marry his first girlfriend. He can see the cold amusement hidden like invisible silt in the corners of the boy's mouth, the golden light from the hall refracting against the impenetrable shields of those turquoise eyes and transforming into a dark, lusterless glow underneath the surface. Toushiro is playing with them, the carrot-top realizes with a purse of his lips, and what is even worse, the employee has the deep, gnawing sensation that he knows where this is heading.
Not in a good direction.
"What would be the point in seeking something new when we already have enough?" Ichigo asks, trying to sound at least half-convincing – an attempt that merely results in his boss giving him a lazy, displeased scowl.
"I'm not talking to you, I'm addressing the lady. I see your face every day, so if you don't mind…." Toushiro trails off with a tired sigh and blinks very slowly as he once again turns to Orihime. "You were saying?"
"I-…' the girl's voice dies away for a second, squished underneath the power of the teal irises that are now pinning her in place, and then she clears her throat and adds more firmly. "I think he's right, why would any of us want to ruin our happiness for the chance to pursue something else?"
"Happiness?" Toushiro repeats flatly, brows arching up as though he's surprised by the naivety of that word. "Oh, yes, Kurosaki and I had a pretty interesting conversation regarding this… phenomenon… some time ago."
"Did you?"
"Indeed," with calm tilt of his head, Hitsugaya artistically brings his hand from behind his back and balances something in front of himself, the slick, shiny crimson surface of the object making Ichigo arch both brows in surprise. "Tell me one thing though," the set of white, thin fingers slowly turn the perfect red apple around, the nude beauty of the silky ivory skin against the bright peel of the fruit seeming almost divine in their perfection. "How can you know that the apple is your favourite fruit if you've never tasted anything else?"
"What?" Orihime doesn't even manage to look properly offended, the surprise that emerges on her face making Toushiro chuckle as he lowers his hand.
"It gets tiring," he whispers in a tone that could've been compassionate if it had held any emotion at all. He isn't even looking at anyone now, lidded gaze focused on some spot in far distance. "Eating sour or overly sweet apples all the time. And Kurosaki's one with an artistic flair, isn't he?"
"What does that have to do with anything?" Ichigo rasps out rather helplessly, gaze flickering back to the apple that his boss is still holding casually by his side. Where did that thing even come from?
"Well, you know," Toushiro jerks one arm in an absent shrug. "Artists usually need-… Diversity. Excitement. Not some mundane idea of perfection that someone else has planted into their heads... But then again, there're always exception." The boy's eyes flicker back to the orange-haired lad and he forces that well-trained smile back on. "Food for thought: how much time does it take for an apple to rot, hm?"
With that said Toushiro pushes his way past the carrot-top and disappears into the crowd, melting like a snowflake into the vast sea of guests that eagerly await his appearance.
Ichigo can hear his fiancée murmuring something disapproving beside him – some kind of bitter complaint regarding the verbal torture she's just been forced through - but he can't seem to be able to focus on her words. He needs a moment. A minute. An hour, if necessary…
So, without even bothering to make a proper excuse, the carrot-top mumbles something about needing to go to the bathroom and slinks away from Orihime's range, heading quickly in the opposite direction of where Toushiro has gone. He vaguely registers his girlfriend's indignant squeak from behind his back, but decides to ignore it, focusing instead on meandering his way between the groups of chatting and laughing people.
Once he reaches the men's rooms, he slips into the nearest cubicle and locks himself in, finally daring to look down at his hand and the object that his boss has hurriedly pushed into his hold upon leaving.
"The hell…"
Ichigo swallows as he lifts the peculiar gift to his eye level.
He is holding a rotten apple.

A/N: Review.
* Meerschaum is a fragile white-ish material, usually used for making expensive, complex smoking pipes.
- 3
- 4
You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.
Report Story

Heartless