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Tōshirō can only be thankful that the skies haven’t opened up to rain icy cold degradation down upon him because that would just be the metaphorical icing on the cake, really.
He peers through the restaurant window again, noting the clock cackling away his humiliation with a steady, mocking howl. One of the staff catches the hopelessness in his gaze and mirrors it, her beautiful complexion twisting into delicate dips and creases of pity. The captain swiftly drops his eyes to the ground and returns to tracing the intricate detail of his kimono; the robe is ice, smooth and weighted upon the slender of his frame, but it clings to his sweaty palms as if it melts, burned by the heat of his fury. The most extravagant and expensive kimono in his wardrobe it is not, but Tōshirō has always found comfort in its silver pleats and folds, carefully crafted by his grandmother into a magnificently simple shawl of moonlight and sky, and it will forever remain his favourite. Only the most significant of occasions (those beyond work, it has to be mentioned) are gifted with the sight of the captain donning this kimono. Yet it seems – as he scans the dawning darkness and the gleeful bustle of the street – that the kimono’s association with his grandmother’s affection is about to be wrecked by a night of disappointment and a scatter-brained, moronic prat who couldn’t get his head out of his own arse for long enough to give any sort of indication that he didn’t give a damn about committing to a relationship.
The captain knows he is a sorry sight.
Standing alone (half-slouched, because he hasn’t given into the cold of reality just yet), Tōshirō probably appears the epitome of a disappointed lover with his shrinking stature and wavering frown. Some other unidentifiable couple of happiness and laughter have swept the table he had reserved away some time ago, and though the staff have apologised for this misfortune, the captain cannot blame them. He could blame himself, and it would be more right to do so – if harsh acceptance had settled over him earlier, if anger and frustration had gripped him tighter, then he could have enjoyed a meal. A lonely meal, yes, but Tōshirō is certain that nothing could be more lonely than waiting on the side of the pavement, enshrouded by darkness and broken promises, with the pitying looks from strangers as his only company.
A sigh escapes him, heavy and frigid as his reiryoku stirs treacherously. Tōshirō glances at the clock again, wondering if watching it leisurely tick on for another ten minutes would be a fitting end to the cruelty of this evening. The same girl inside catches his eye again, but this time she gestures towards the cups and glasses she is serving to a far table, asking if there is anything she can do – if there is anything he would like.
What he would like is to return to his quarters and stew in a bitter blizzard of self-pity for the rest of the night. Since he doesn’t need some stranger to reflect his disappointment back at him – though it warms him, briefly, before flicking into disgrace – the captain politely shakes his head and takes her fluttering expression of sorrow as his queue to leave.
Tōshirō curses his optimism and hisses in pain when the words sting behind his eyes.
He should have left an hour ago. That he hadn’t is a clear indication of why he had subjected himself to so much embarrassment. His pride is laced within the weight of his uniform, but for one night the captain had cast it aside in the hope that his partner would live up to the promises of their emerging relationship.
Clearly, Tōshirō had expected too much.
Dense shadows of dejection trail after him as he slips away. They nip at his heels like hellish hounds to increase his pace, tormenting him to hide away, but Tōshirō will not reduce himself to fleeing. Holding his head high is still a challenge, however, but fortunately the witnesses to his struggle are few as the Seireitei flourishes in the evening festival. Social gatherings on such a large scale are not his favourite pastime, but Tōshirō knows he had been… looking forward to sharing the night’s enthusiasm. Not for the food or the noise or the endless crowd of happiness, but because it was a rare night off from professionalism and duty, and he had wanted to spend it in the company of his choosing.
A window crackles as he passes, whimpering in the sudden chill. Frosted evidence of his shame traces a wretched path back to the restaurant, but Tōshirō pays it no mind. It will melt soon enough – just as his relationship doubtlessly will, leaving behind no trace that it had ever attempted to exist in the first place. The captain’s footsteps crunch with a snowy stride. Each trek is unaccompanied by an encore – the larger gait of his partner, light and bold like the sun – and Tōshirō huffs out a frazzled storm of frustration, running a hand through his fringe.
Christ, he desires Ichigo Kurosaki’s dopey presence far too much.
The substitute shinigami is not without his charm. He’s bright – and Tōshirō isn’t just referring to the offensive shock of his hair. The exponential nature of Kurosaki’s growth is staggering, and though the young man is far too tall for his own good (the idiot, Tōshirō thinks, trying to hide his fondness), his heart is large and selfless. Family has always been, and always will be, a priority of the Shiba family, and it is with this awful (wonderful) truth in the forefront of his mind that Tōshirō pauses in his disgraced trek back to the Tenth Division.
Perhaps, he ponders, lifting his gaze to scan the fiery brightness of the festival around him before turning towards the direction of the Shiba household. Perhaps there is a reason for Kurosaki’s absence.
A very good reason, Tōshirō corrects, fighting back his reiryoku’s urge to take revenge for being stood up like a loser.
A firework explodes in the distance, illuminating the journey to the Shiba compound in a blazing array of yellow and gold. Screams and calls of wonder answer the thundering in the sky, and Tōshirō feels doubt thaw at his icy demeanour.
The truth is, Kurosaki is not the type to abandon a date without a word. Tōshirō is convinced of that; the substitute’s respect for others is one of the reasons he agreed to date the human.
“Heaven forbid,” the wintry captain mutters, chewing his lip indecisively.
Another firework erupts, prompting laughter and awe. He wonders if they’re a Shiba speciality, and then realises the only way to find out is to head over to the family home and ask –
– Did you have better plans this evening?
(He might ask – if he doesn’t induce an ice age upon the compound before the words can break through the fortress of his anger).
(He thinks that’s slightly more likely).
The gates of the Shiba home have only ever greeted Tōshirō’s winter chill once before. Unlike the Four Noble Houses of the Seireitei and most of the Gotei Thirteen’s divisions, the grounds around the building that Tōshirō approaches are seldom guarded around the clock. As such, the looming figures of Koganehiko and Shiroganehiko don’t approach the advancing tempest until Tōshirō is mere feet away from the grand arch of the main entrance; their hefty figures are immoveable on the captain’s either side, but their arms remain crossed as they judge the little stature of the guest that arrives.
Tōshirō stands straighter and lifts his gaze to meet them. There is a moment in which the guards’ neutral expressions twist into something tremendous and fierce, but eventually both men dip their heads in greeting, the white tassels of their hats swinging low.
“Captain Hitsugaya,” they boom simultaneously. “Ichigo-sama is home, if it pleases you.”
Hot scarlet threatens to wreck Tōshirō’s sophisticated demeanour at those words, and he coughs shortly to dispel his embarrassment at the guards’ insight into his relationship. Neither of the two defending statues reveals any sort of emotion in response, but the captain cannot help but wonder if it had been approval he had heard lacing their greeting.
“Thank you,” Tōshirō replies politely, returning the brief bow. “May I be permitted to see him?”
(May I be permitted to break his face?)
He asks out of courtesy – lover or no, Kurosaki is still a member of the main branch house of the Shiba clan, and this deserves respect in Tōshirō’s eyes. Even if the clan isn’t officially classed as ‘noble’ anymore, the former captain of the Tenth had been a Shiba, and that is enough for Tōshirō.
The guards share a glance over his head.
Tōshirō doesn’t raise an expectant eyebrow (the one he haunts his officers with), but it’s a close thing. He doesn’t think they would appreciate it much, somehow.
“Ichigo-sama is sleeping at the moment,” Shiroganehiko explains gravely. Koganehiko nods, humming in the same tone. “He was complaining of nausea and a lack of appetite some hours ago and retired to his room.”
“He has yet to emerge,” Koganehiko continues, and Shiroganehiko hums in agreement. “Though if any company were to be desired by Ichigo-sama, yours would be preferable, Captain.”
It’s not quite I think you should see him, but Tōshirō appreciates what the guards are trying to express in the solemn shadow of their spoken words. He concedes, unwilling to share his doubts and concerns with the two men, and maintains the composure of his pace as he steps into the heart of the Shiba home. Neither guard follows him in or offers to show him the way through the Shiba complex, but Kurosaki’s reiatsu is unmistakable in the emptiness of the house. The captain trails through the dark corridors, restraining his urge to explore the building’s most recent makeover, and makes a note of any open rooms his passes. Though he would never physically draw a map of the building, one starts to sketch its way into existence inside his mind as he approaches the sleeping quarters. It will have to remain regrettably undetailed for many years to come, he knows, because if his relationship with the Shiba heir ends like he imagines it’s about to, there will be no further reason for Tōshirō to ever step foot towards the family again.
(His grandmother probably will, but then there will be no mark against her name preventing her from doing so).
The door to Kurosaki’s room is shut when he stops outside. For a moment, Tōshirō considers knocking to announce his presence. However… Koganehiko and Shiroganehiko aren’t around to rebuke him, and he doesn’t really want to give his partner the satisfaction of fleeing, so he slides the door open and strides inside.
The frigid anger of his reiryoku spills out like storm clouds breaking, the sapphire glow to his reiatsu threatening to encase the floor in a bitter layer of sleet. Kurosaki’s burning reiatsu is volcanic smog trapped in the tiny four corners, and it flickers and churns when Tōshirō’s ice glides through it. Flashes and sparks of the distant fireworks light up the shadows that the captain steps through; unease prompts Tōshirō to coil his reiatsu back in, but the fiery grip of his partner’s spirit scampers after him, tugging and pulling the icy mist with the desperation of a nervous child. Conflicted and entirely confused, Tōshirō reaches around for the light switch and slams illumination onto the wariness in his gaze; the flushed, ragged burn to his boyfriend’s slumber.
Kurosaki’s greeting is a cough, thick with bile and broken in his throat, and tremors through the tight curl of his body hazardous enough to quake his reiatsu into encouraging Tōshirō closer. Tōshirō hesitates, taking in the scene: waraji and uniform scattered; blankets strewn; a cup of half-drunk tea, left cold and remote, shivering in the chill of the captain’s guilty comprehension.
He runs a hand through his hair, taming the wintry locks. “Trust you to have a reasonable excuse,” Tōshirō sighs gloomily, but as he gathers his kimono up and kneels beside the feverish whimpering of his partner, it is an inappropriately delighted relief that has him reaching to comfort the ailing shinigami. “You don’t do anything in halves, do you Kurosaki?”
The reply is an incoherent mumble; an exhausted, muddled version of his boyfriend’s usual charm.
(In all honesty, it doesn’t sound too different from some of the nonsense that Kurosaki has come out with before, and Tōshirō cannot help but smile to himself in the privacy of the room).
“Moron,” he whispers to the substitute, sweeping the ginger fringe away to reveal eyes clenched in pain. Kurosaki’s skin is blistering to the touch, even for Tōshirō’s cool hands, and his auburn hair is burning, plastered to his forehead. The young man coughs again, shielding away from the icy hand and spraying saliva across the duvet. Tōshirō cringes and pulls away, but he is reluctant to leave with helping in some way.
Trained only in the most basic first aid, but surely enough to help, he ponders, teal eyes scan the room for medication or assistance. When none are found, the captain drags himself away from Kurosaki’s quivering form and collects the abandoned teacup, dashing back out of the quarters to find what he needs.
When he returns, there is a wavering degree of cognisance staring at him from under the duvet. Though hazy with fever and questionably aware, Kurosaki’s eyes track Tōshirō as he approaches, his eyebrows furrowed and cracked lips parted in confusion. The captain attempts his most encouraging smile and rests a newly poured cup of tea on the side, but it isn’t enough to draw Kurosaki’s blurred attention away from the magnificence of his kimono and the way it shines when the fireworks outside explode.
“You –” the ginger tries, staring hard enough to burn a hole through the kimono, but Tōshirō cuts him off by waving a thermometer under his nose.
“Shut up and let me check your temperature,” he snaps, wondering if his partner’s scrambled sentience is enough to make the connection between his formal attire and the lateness of the hour. “I made you tea. I hope it’s all right, but even if it’s not I want you to drink it, do you hear me?”
When Kurosaki opens his mouth to argue, Tōshirō sticks the thermometer under his tongue and glares him into submission. It reads just over thirty-eight degrees Celsius when he checks it, which isn’t enough for Tōshirō to be terribly worried, but there’s no doubt that Kurosaki is feeling wretched. He feels ill just watching the substitute’s sluggish, agonising movements and listening to his lungs hammer against his chest in protest.
“Drink your tea,” the captain says, manoeuvring the steaming cup under the cocoon that the substitute has hidden himself in.
Kurosaki whines like a browbeaten puppy but accepts the mug with pale, shaking hands, regarding it tentatively. His gaze isn’t entirely focused in the right place, but his grip is firm if unsteady, and he sips the drink carefully.
“It’s peppermint, not poison,” Tōshirō huffs, his tone missing its usual bite of sarcasm. “That will come later, I assure you.”
His grumbling patient manages a feeble smile at the words, and the captain is pleased to note that some of the wildfire edge to Kurosaki’s reiatsu soothes at the humour. The bedroom is still stuffy and tight with groggy panic and agitation, so as the substitute battles his way through the tea Tōshirō lets his reiatsu dwell around them in a gentle hush of snow to cool the room. Watching his partner’s reactions to the temperature change is vital as a chill settles over them; Hyorinmaru gifts Tōshirō with a greater resistance to the cold than most, and it has taken the captain years to measure the appropriate temperatures for those more sensitive than he. Given Kurosaki’s delicate state of health, harming him further is the last thing Tōshirō wants to do.
(He’ll have to postpone breaking his face until the idiot is more prepared for it).
When another hacking cough crashes its way through the substitute’s throat, the captain replaces the tea with a wet cloth, dotting it across the scarlet burn of the man’s face. Kurosaki bats him away with a slurred complaint, whinging about some nonsense Tōshirō choices to ignore. Instead, he presses his boyfriend back into bed (rolling his eyes all the while at the ease at which the sick fool submits), and none too gently splatters the cloth across Kurosaki’s face.
The yelp is the first of many steps towards earning forgiveness, Tōshirō muses, allowing himself a smile while Kurosaki is too distracted to notice.
“Get off – sick not stupid,” protests the young shinigami, squirming away from the towel like a child throwing a tantrum.
“Fancy that,” the other mumbles, but finished with his revenge, Tōshirō cools the cloth with his reiatsu again and folds it across Kurosaki’s forehead. “I never would have guessed.”
His partner murmurs a curse that’s probably meant to offend, but Tōshirō only feels sympathy as the last of Kurosaki’s fiery energy dims and dies inside of him, wheezing out like the cough that breaks through his lips. The Shiba screws his eyes shut and wiggles back under the covers, but he seems more awake now; more like his usual animated self.
The wintry captain feels a spark of guilt at his unnecessary behaviour, yet he cannot deny that the wound unknowingly inflicted at the restaurant is still sore from neglect. Being stood up on their date had hurt, but Tōshirō supposes if there is one reason to forgive Kurosaki’s erroneous blunder, his failing health should count. It’s likely Kurosaki had simply intended to catch an hour or two of sleep before travelling across the Seireitei to meet him, but when fever struck during his momentary slumber there was little he could have done to alert Tōshirō of the change.
“Idiot,” Tōshirō whispers fondly, shaking his head in exasperation even as he brushes his fingers against Kurosaki’s clammy skin. “I guess I should apologise.”
A reply is unexpected, but then again so is everything about the blubbering moron he has come to –
(Appreciate?)
– so Tōshirō cannot say he is terribly surprised when the skin beneath his fingertips pulls up into a smile;
“Me too,” Kurosaki mutters sadly, trailing his gaze up the dazzling kimono. “Forgot.”
“No you didn’t.” Tōshirō doesn’t believe that excuse for a second, and he chalks the blatant lie down to Kurosaki’s unwillingness to admit that he’s sick. “But we can go with that, if you’d like, and you’ll find yourself single for the rest of your life.”
The word why starts to take shape on Kurosaki’s dazed face. Tōshirō lifts his eyebrows to elaborate exactly what he means, and the ginger splutters and laughs in understanding.
(One of his legs shifts under the duvet).
“I am sorry,” says Kurosaki.
Tōshirō almost rolls his eyes, but restrains himself because his boyfriend’s gaze isn’t focused on his face anymore. “I know,” he replies, clicking his tongue. “Now go to sleep, you need rest. I’ll go make us some dinner.”
Kurosaki hums his compliance. He’s asleep before Tōshirō has even finished talking, snoring snot and sickness into the pillow.
In any other situation, the captain would probably berate him.
But then, in any other situation Tōshirō would have dropped an ice age on the Shiba complex and refused to let his (consequently ex) boyfriend out until he received an adequate apology for being utterly humiliated.
His stomach rumbles as he watches his other half sleep his illness away.
Tōshirō sighs.
His cooking isn’t worth a damn.
(At least one of them is already sick).