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It’s more of a closet with four creaking, flimsy walls constructed of a decaying material trying to pass as wood than a bedroom, but Ichigo honestly doesn’t give a damn. He may not be used to sleeping in corners, on rocks, or rolling about in gravel, but catching a few winks on the cold floorboards of the Seireitei while visiting his friends isn’t that uncommon, and he’s shattered enough not to complain about the solitary blanket he has folded over one arm. Moreover, denying the hospitality of the guesthouse – however taxingly minimal – would be rude of him, and Ichigo knows his mother wouldn’t be the only person to frown at the lack of his manners.
In saying that, the captain in charge of their impromptu mission beyond Seireitei’s borders looks just as exhausted as him, so Ichigo wouldn’t be surprised if his grumblings would be lost to the shadows under Tōshirō’s eyes and the glower to his movements as he glides around the room with more of a shuffle than a step. His snowy hair, pale features, and trailing haori create the impression of a drunken ghost, but Ichigo knows that Tōshirō is one of the most composed of the captains, even if the image thoroughly amuses him.
The young captain is remarkably generous too, Ichigo was nonplussed to learn, though the warmth of his compassion is masked far behind a thick fortification of ice and sarcasm. Ichigo hears it anyway – in Tōshirō’s actions, in the things he leaves unsaid – so the invitation to the only sofa in the room hardly comes as a surprise. The substitute flops into it with a guilty expression – he’s a last minute tag along on this patrol and is thus taking up far more space than necessary, yet Tōshirō is appeased. If asked, Ichigo will argue that abating Tōshirō’s scowl is a significant factor to his compliance, but it’s really more the sheer weight of his lead limbs than anything that tumbles him into the spongy fabric of the sofa and cements him there.
The same can probably be said for the Tenth Division lieutenant, plastered across the only bed like a starfish. Somehow, Rangiku still manages to achieve a spectacular beauty while slobbering incoherent mumblings into the sheets, chewing through the golden strands of her hair. Her lieutenant’s badge is sticking into her arm at an odd angle and the scarf she adorns has tried to make an escape to the window, but even so, her smoky reiatsu is ambling around her voluptuous figure to suggest there’s at least some lucidity in her frazzled daze to the world around her.
“Matsumoto,” Tōshirō snaps, further emphasising Ichigo’s belief that somewhere splayed atop the bed is Rangiku’s wit. Even from behind the boneless slumber of his eyes as he buries himself wholly into the sofa, Ichigo can see the sharp roll of the captain’s arctic gaze. “Pick yourself up and actually get into the bed.”
Rangiku replies with an unintelligent protest that makes the captain sigh. Only really giving the exchange a fraction of his dwindling attention, Ichigo kicks off his waraji and checks that Zangetsu is balanced against the sofa’s squidgy arm before settling as best he can into his makeshift bed. Bickering amongst the Tenth Division’s authoritative officers isn’t exactly an exceptional sight. Ichigo may have only been acquainted to Soul Society and its inhabitants for the best part of a few months, but the ease at which he established himself into the routine of their eccentric lives provided him with many opportunities to gauge how the individual divisions synchronise. The light banter that bounces between Tōshirō and Rangiku is recurrent enough that it hardly ever explodes into uncontrolled arguments – Ichigo has heard the captain’s frigid shout before, but he still doesn’t think there’s ever been any real torment behind the volume.
It’s quite entertaining, actually, watching Rangiku roll about to taunt her captain’s glare into action. Tōshirō is a master at restraint, however, which only amplifies the grin Ichigo hides into the edge of the blanket.
“Don’t you start,” the captain sighs, as if he’s referring to a five year old on a sugar-rush and not the elegant maturity of his lieutenant. He’s not even looking in Ichigo’s direction, but the substitute is acutely aware that the monotonous drone is definitely aimed at him. “And get some rest – we’ve got further to travel in the morning.”
Ichigo agrees with a yawn. Nevertheless, he hesitates before submitting to the suggestion – they may have hidden their striking uniforms beneath kaki cloaks and settled their drowsy forms far off the main Rukongai road, but they’re still a ways from the safety of the inner districts and the rules that govern them. He has not before traversed this far from the great walls of the Seireitei (one reason he had been eager to join this expedition) which only fuels his inexperience of the dangers that could strike while they sleep.
“Do not fret,” Tōshirō adds as he turns about the room. “We will be safe here for the night.”
“Alright,” Ichigo mumbles with a half-shrug. He concedes, trusting Tōshirō’s decision. (Plus, if anything does manage to sneak up on them, they all deserve the grilling it would bring). “You get some sleep too.”
Where exactly the captain is going to sleep is the next question, but though it flashes across Ichigo’s mind as the sight of his snowy companion standing in the centre of the room like a lost sheep, Tōshirō doesn’t appear concerned at the prospect of not having somewhere sensible to doze.
It’s his courteous nature, Ichigo concludes.
Yet just before he shuts his eyes, he catches Rangiku wiggling further up the bed with a grin.
…Or maybe not, he amends.
A low hum wakes Ichigo, resounding like a lullaby against the rumble of laughter and life in the guesthouse. The abundance of voices cheering into the evening is the backdrop to the quiet symphony, but their vibrancy fails to overwhelm the gentle lull of the sound. Gathering his bearings, Ichigo peeks through the midnight darkness and the silver moonlight that breaks it to search for the origin of the tune, coiling his reiryoku in preparation for the worst. Instead, he observes a figure gliding about the room, and it takes him a second to recognise that it’s Tōshirō, still adorned in his professionalism but absent of his zanpakuto and perpetual scowl.
The captain is humming to himself as he moves, blissfully unaware that he has gained a silent audience to the motions of his task. Ichigo holds his breath to savour the sight. He’s not sure why he feels as if he is trespassing upon his friend, but the way his gut clenches as Tōshirō shimmies about with a trained silence compels him to stay quiet. There is no malicious intent behind the captain’s movements, but Ichigo still finds himself transfixed as Tōshirō works his way around the bed, his fingertips trailing along the creases of the sheets and the folds to Rangiku’s slumber. He appears uncertain despite the lack of hesitation to his actions, and Ichigo struggles to place the expression that the moonlight illuminates upon Tōshirō’s features. It’s more of a gentle touch of snow than the harsh clipping of ice that he is used to seeing, and that – more than anything – suggests that Ichigo is observing something he shouldn’t be.
The humming continues at a leisurely pace. Tōshirō tugs the heavy blankets up past his lieutenant’s shoulders and sweeps her amber hair out of her face. A tiring grumble disrupts the melody of his voice, but he still finishes his caress by smoothing out the edges of the covers and checking that Rangiku’s waraji are neatly tucked at the end of the bed. The last thing he does is set the lieutenant badge on the bedside desk – something passes across his expression then; almost pain, and Ichigo screws his eyes shut when the captain’s gaze arcs past him.
When the substitute can bring himself to open his eyes again, Tōshirō is wrapping the flimsiest of the blankets around his shoulders. It swamps him like an enthusiastic hug from a distant relative, but if the captain distinguishes the sentiment then there is no sign in his expression as he curls up against the bed his lieutenant is slumbering in. Lying down to sleep doesn’t appear to occur to him – instead, Tōshirō tucks his knees together and props his head up so he can watch the shadows of the other guests moving past the door.
He is completely motionless.
Ichigo drifts off again pondering the certainty of the position being dreadfully uncomfortable.
(It's likely).
Thirst rouses him from the fleeting grasp of unconsciousness the second time. The guesthouse had reluctantly provided a hot meal when they had arrived hours past acceptable, but Ichigo had been so tired that he’s sure he had only consumed the food by rapid inhalation, rather than mechanical chewing and swallowing. Luckily, Rangiku had requested that a pitcher of water be brought to their room for the night, so the irritable substitute knows there is something available to satisfy him as he coaxes his limbs out of the warm cocoon.
Ichigo yawns, catching the drought of his breath in his hand. His aching legs tumble him across the floorboards – he scuffles loudly in his tabi, loath to leave the blanket behind. Despite this, he’s the only movement in the room, although he does gaze around for his two companions as he pours himself a glass of water.
Rangiku’s still in the bed, but she’s on her side now, her nose pressed into the pillow. Tōshirō is flat across the floor on his back. The thin blanket is tangled around his legs. Ichigo would say that he’s fallen over in his sleep, except there’s a robed arm and manicured hand peeking out from under the covers of the bed, hanging parallel to the captain’s rising chest.
One of Tōshirō’s arms is bent at the elbow, an echo of his lieutenant’s reach.
Their fingers aren’t touching anymore.
The ginger substitute carefully slips back onto the sofa in fear that he might wake them. He just about manages to rebury himself in the blanket and discard any inappropriate thoughts about the painfully innocent scene before Tōshirō stirs. The captain is slow to wake – unexpected, but liberating in its proof that war has yet to taint him. His virtuosity blinks lethargically into the darkness, taking in his surroundings. It isn’t until he pushes himself up and flattens back his hair that he notices Rangiku’s hand, but that’s only because it swings into his nose.
The resulting yelp makes Ichigo muffle a snicker. If Tōshirō hears the witness to his embarrassment, he gives no indication. He frowns at Rangiku’s hands for a moment, the same aching (hurting? Ichigo’s not sure) expression settling at the forefront of his scowl again. After a pause, he reaches out and arranges his lieutenant’s arm back under the security of the bed sheets. He even re-tucks the covers down.
Ichigo’s smile drops right off his face.
Tōshirō makes no further move towards the light snore of the slumbering woman. Rather, he twists onto his side so that his back is against the side of the bed, complementing the guard of his primary position, and kicks the blanket over his feet.
Rangiku turns over in her sleep. Her hand falls back out of the bed again, but since Tōshirō doesn’t notice the fruitlessness of his intentions, Ichigo goes back to sleep.
It’s probably the safest course of action, anyway.
They’re bickering when he awakens for the third time. Unlike with their usual banter, Tōshirō’s voice is thick with grogginess and Rangiku isn’t giggling, but she’s certainty close to it when Ichigo stares at the way her body is lounged across the bed, her face a cat’s grin over the muddled glare of the captain. Ichigo has no idea what type of discussion he’s just woken to, but given the amusement of the lieutenant, he’s not sure he really wants to know.
“Oh come on, I don’t bite,” she is saying, yet the expression on Tōshirō’s face as her strawberry hair tickles his skin suggests he’s partial to thinking otherwise.
“Don’t,” he mumbles back – whatever that means. He rubs a hand over the exhaustion shadowing his eyes. “Go back to sleep, Matsumoto. I don’t know what the time is.”
“I didn’t ask you for the time,” Rangiku replies innocently, titling her head at him.
Tōshirō hums. It’s nothing like his melody from earlier, but Ichigo feels as if the meaning behind it is the same. “Either way,” the captain continues, his words futile at painting a coherent façade. “Sleep. Please.”
For a long moment, Rangiku just watches him, and Ichigo wonders if she’s considering listening to the captain. Tōshirō must think the same for he shuts his eyes (or perhaps he hopes), a relieved sigh escaping his lips. The silence extends for another minute, then two, and Ichigo can’t help but feel that he’s missed a whole section of the conversation somewhere in between.
“Captain?” Rangiku eventually whispers, asking if he’s awake. Then, more daring, she adds, “Tōshirō?”
Tōshirō Hitsugaya is many things, but rude is not one of them. It’s clear in the lack of reply that he has dozed off.
She positively beams.
Ichigo groans and hides behind his hands at the inevitable chaos. To claim ignorance if ever asked about it later, he pretends not to watch the lieutenant slip out of the bed and scoop her captain up, blanket and all, and settle him in the space of the bed that she has left. He looks offensively tiny when she crawls over, assembling the covers around him.
If Tōshirō were awake, he would be livid.
(The guesthouse would be victim to an ice age by the morning).
Luckily, he’s not. This means there’s nobody to stop Rangiku from smoothing the bird’s nest of his hair and relaxing down next to him, secreting them both into the night.
She looks absolutely chuffed with herself, all things considered.
Ichigo wonders how many of them are actually going to survive this trip.