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"I was concerned I would not see you again."
The voice is like a touch of ice, the frozen desolation in the aftermath of winter's mayhem, and the moonlight-shrouded figure allows himself a smile at the sound as he turns to greet the silent footfalls of the guest. Weightless folds of a shimmering lilac kimono drift across the tight expanse of the room, but Ichigo can hear the wooden steps all the same. He retrieves a steaming cup of tea from the endless midnight of his cloak and offers it to the snow-kissed newcomer. A blizzard huffs out in amusement, but the gift is gratefully accepted. Ichigo smirks and makes room on the window ledge to accommodate two, prompting the smaller figure to settle from his journey across the Seireitei, travelling beneath the stars.
They often meet like this; unannounced and utterly welcome.
To the light fondness in the query, Ichigo leisurely replies, "The old man's got a thick head," though his spirited eyes do soften as he glances over towards the slumbering shinigami in the centre of the room. There are old and new wounds alike tucked safely under the Fourth Division's care, but each still bears a memory that Ichigo will never forget. "But I guess I was worried to, for a moment."
"As if you are not worried all of the time?" asks the other guardian with a playful tilt to his lips. "I thought it in our nature to be incessantly fretful over the idiotic actions of our souls."
He sips his tea. The gentle steam warms the cold indifference of his features into an empathetic smile. Ichigo rolls his eyes at the expression but he is far from offended – Tōshirō is scarcely mistaken in his observations, and the fiery spirit is seldom able to find fault in the accusations of the wintry zanpakuto.
"That may be true," Ichigo counters, humming thoughtfully. "But I imagine mine has given me more reason to fret than yours ever has."
"A challenge," Tōshirō notes. "One that could last all night."
"I have nowhere to be." The cheerful ginger shrugs with a millennium-old teenage habit. Igneous shadows ooze from his shoulders and reform the molten fabric of his robe. Across the room his other half shudders in his sedated sleep, lines of age deepening into his skin. Ichigo imagines other zanpakuto often think it queer that such an aged-appearing man has such a vibrant, youthful spirit. The same could be said for Tōshirō, though his taller, more substantial half is characterised by mellow, handsome greens and blues rather than Zangetsu's senior blacks and greys, so the divergence is less defined. Still, they have both lived with the questions for the entirety of their existence. That doesn't mean they have found an answer for them though.
Outside, somebody laughs, his or her glee muted deeply in the blanket of night. Ichigo continues watching his exhausted half sleep the hours away and wonders briefly – for just a fleeting moment – what it would be like to exist in the material plane of Soul Society. Instead of voicing these thoughts he casts them away, and the shadowed zanpakuto spirit comments, "He will sleep an age if he can."
The elder spirit inclines his head, the air around him shivering. "And you wouldn't?"
Ichigo laughs the complexity of the question away. "Of course I would. But it's just as enjoyable to spend my time with you."
A cheeky wink follows the statement. The wintry spirit turning and willing his heated blush to make itself useful by warming his tea hides the automatic scowl that drops onto Tōshirō's face. Ichigo laughs boldly and nudges his companion. A dragon-worthy growl resounds back at him and he roars harder, clutching at the weighted folds of his cloak to prevent his being from fading back into the inner world that shelters it. He will never tire from teasing Tōshirō even though they have participated in this game for hundreds of years already. Uncovering the array of emotions that Tōshirō hides deep beneath a cold layer of ice is a satisfying endeavour – one that Ichigo is often graciously rewarded for if he plays his cards right.
"You're a flirt," Tōshirō remarks dryly.
"I prefer the term 'chivalrous romantic' actually," is the reply that earns an exasperated swat from the diamond spirit. Ichigo grins himself silly, recognising the playful banter concealed in the gesture. The smelted shadows of his attire cling to Tōshirō's cool skin as his hand is pulled away. Tōshirō lets them curl around his fingers before they slink back to Ichigo's robe in mounds and dollops of darkness. The space between their shoulders quivers in the chill.
"I am glad you're alright," Tōshirō admits as he sets the empty cup aside. It fills up again with his favourite blend without a sound but he lets it be for a moment. Instead his teal eyes gaze at the unblemished perfection of the other zanpakuto; Ichigo quirks his lips and surrenders to the feeling of being adored.
"So am I," he says brightly, watching the marine eyes roll at the comment. Ichigo almost laughs and cracks a joke, but the tone of the conversation shifts at the brief silence; the late hour tightens around them. "Zangetsu thinks it was calculated. He thinks there will be more outbreaks of conflict, and that they'll get worse."
Tōshirō concurs with a hum and picks up his tea. He blows softly across the surface and the liquid cools instantly. A few droplets splash onto the amethyst gleam of his kimono, but Ichigo knows that they will disappear from his companion's clothing when he returns to guard the inner workings of Zangetsu's soul.
"I'd hate to see a larger group of Hollow," the ginger zanpakuto continues darkly. "I'd hate for anyone below the strength of a captain to befall that fate. We struggled enough as it was and people are constantly remarking how much of a powerhouse the old man is." He smiles then, as if privy to a morbid joke. "Not that Zangetsu is anywhere near close to experiencing all of my strength. I enjoy watching him earn it. Hoary bugger likes to take his time though."
An appreciative expression flickers across Tōshirō's soft features. Ichigo rubs the back of his neck in embarrassment, and the sleeping shinigami groans as if he can perceive the insult in his anesthetised daze.
"Still," Ichigo goes on with a discontent grumble. "Perhaps it's time to teach him something new – I value his health over my pride after all, and I hate seeing him like this. It makes me feel like I've…"
It doesn't need to be said. All zanpakuto have experienced the devastating sensation of failure before. Hopelessness is a vile concoction associated with hovering restlessly in daunting operation theatres and screaming to desolating silence in the hollow of their inner worlds.
"Sometimes they are beyond our reach," Tōshirō reasons, sighing into the comfort of the tea.
Ichigo closes his eyes, casting the sight of his wounded soul away. "I should be able to protect him," he murmurs, saddened by his uselessness. Their last battle explodes in his ears again; hot blood splatters across his eyes and the wretched stench of terror consumes him, clogging his throat and pooling in his lungs. He can taste the adrenaline and the fire of their reiatsu spilling over the blackened waste, but when Ichigo exhales to settle his heart, his breath is white and glimmering with frost instead of the scorching fire that he expected.
He awakens to snow falling, dancing, and then disappearing into the shadows. He sticks out his tongue to welcome the chilling petals of water, eyes crinkling when the breeze adjusts to humour him, and then startles back and smacks his head against the window when the first snowflake lands on his lips.
"They taste like tea," Ichigo laughs. He rubs the painful spot on the back of his skull.
"Oh I'm sorry," Tōshirō replies smoothly, the offence in his tone drolly exaggerated as he taps his fingernails against the cup still in his possession. "I forgot that some of us prefer strawberry cheesecake and excessive helpings of double cream. Please excuse my blunder."
Ichigo howls, clutching at his sides in an effort to hold in his laughter. "Wait, wait," he gasps, after having likely woken every other zanpakuto in the vicinity. "Are you – are you telling me that you can make your reiatsu taste like strawberry cheesecake and –"
"No."
"But it tastes like tea and you've been drinking that a lot!"
Tōshirō is quiet at the gleeful exclamation. The minute cogs in his brain stir silently at the puzzle. "Yes, perhaps," he says eventually, unsure about the idea in a way that suggests he's never considered the possibility before.
"Maybe we should test it," Ichigo breaths, grinning eagerly. "Sogyo no Kotowari will probably be able to find some. No – don't give me that look – we're going to do this; it's actually happening."
He leaps off of the window ledge and tumbles across the room in a lively, haphazard manner. Behind him Tōshirō blurts, "Now?" and Ichigo turns to beam at the incredulous expression on his companion's face.
"Yeah, yeah, come on – no wait, you stay here and watch Zangetsu and I'll go and get Sogyo no Kotowari." A tanned hand reaches out from under the extensive drapes of his ghostly shawl and waggles with an authorising motion. "Stay there, I'll be right back."
"What –" is the only word that Ichigo hears as he bounds out of the room, and he's halfway down the midnight-burning corridor before the rest of Tōshirō's cry catches up with him. "Wait – Ichigo!"
The wooden door thunders as the elegant spirit stumbles into it. The haste to reach the burning excitement of his friend is splotched across Tōshirō's nose and cheeks in embarrassment. Taking in the uncharacteristic shout as he swivels on his heels, Ichigo waits a moment to see if anything else will be said before asking, "Yeah?"
Tōshirō blinks. His posture takes a little longer than usual to right itself. "You wish for me to watch Zangetsu? Do you trust –?"
"You're my friend, aren't you?" Ichigo interrupts. He doesn't think he could bear to hear that question from Tōshirō's lips, and it unsettles him because he isn't sure why.
"Yes," the other assures, hesitating as if he yearns to say something else. "I am."
A blush crawls down Ichigo's neck and pools above the hammering of his chest. He realises he cannot bring himself to look at Tōshirō's face in fear of his expression and abruptly stares down at the floor instead. Mirroring him, Tōshirō shuffles his feet, finding them momentarily fascinating as his pastel features alight with an earnest flame.
They often depart like this; undecided and utterly flustered.
Tōshirō gazes up at him, calculating something beyond mortal comprehension. Ichigo rubs the base of his neck and his shadows quiver in response to his nervousness. Sometimes the dragon-guarded thoughts of his wintry friend are past his reach. (It excites him as much as it scares him).
"Don't be too long, and try not to wake Captain Ukitake," utters the silvery zanpakuto into the silence, turning back to the door. His magnificent kimono imprints a faint path of snow for the other to trailblaze as he slips inside without a further word.
Ichigo persuades himself to wait for the arctic breeze to recede before gliding his fingertips down the frozen relics on the doorframe.
His cloak sways and his hair tousles. He shivers.
The wind doesn't cease.
He smiles and traces the ice anyway.