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Hinamori Momo was a winter bride.
One would think it was an inadequate choice; she was always bright and sunny, the very manifestation of a summer’s day.
But warmth has always been indispensable to the cold.
Like her to him. The love of his life. The fire to his ice. His red thread of fate.
She said I do to him under the curtain of snow, and Hitsugaya kissed his wife’s red button nose.
He kisses it all the same on slow mornings when the sun creeps on the Seiretei horizon, limbs all splayed out on the cotton covers, chasing shadows in the crook of each other’s embrace.
He touches it on nights he captures her lips and lets himself melt all over. Momo is my wife, he tells himself as she settles against his chest. Momo is my wife, he repeats again when he wakes up with her hair on his cheeks. Momo is my wife, like a prayer that came true.
“Which side of the bed do you want, Shiro?” Momo asks as she surveys the bare room. On one side, the window shares the view of the overgrowth. Rose vines and yellow bells fight for space on sparse earth while poison ivy rests comfortably on the concrete walls of the house. It will take some time to tame their backdoor wilderness, but Hitsugaya can see that it would be a beautiful garden in the care of her hands.
“I’ll take the one facing the wall Momo.”
A smile grows from his statement. “Are you sure?”
“Of course.”
"No take backs."
He smirks. "I don't do that."
"You'll roll me over!"
He holds up a pinky. She always made him do this when they wrre younger. "Promise. Stop being so insufferable. You're so cute when you're adamant."
"Ugh, so sappy all of a sudden." She giggles — that's all he wants to hear really — and laughter fills the crevices of the old house.
Under the futon that night, surrounded with boxes both closed and halfway open, Momo stares out the curtainless window to the unobstructed view of the full moon. She falls asleep after the fifth shooting star.
Meanwhile, Hitsugaya has the perfect perspective of her face; how she surrenders to the drowse, how her breathing evens out, and how she smiles in her dreams. Not all nights are like this.
Sometimes, the dreams are nightmares.
And he refuses to touch her in the aftermath.
He can vividly feel his hand — Hyourinmaru — go through her chest. His quickening pulse matches the spewing blood from her body. When it's emptied, there's a hollow instead of where her heart should be.
He goes frigid, his own pulse also frozen in shock, despair, some kind of indescribable grief. Then he jolts out of that plane when he feels her, the present her, draw his arm around her body. Calm and steady, her . In between the void and wakefulness, she forgives him.
Figures lost in crowd, that's what they look like on market days. She reaches out to him in the sea of bodies, intertwining his fingers with hers. It's a mindless gesture for Momo, but Hitsugaya feels tethered.
His hand in her. His soul is anchored.
"Tadaima."
10:07. Hitsugaya left Karakura around that time. Ichigo is boisterous, the usual, but even more so with the second addition to their family.
They broke the news over Orihime's okonamiyaki. A hefty dash of Ichigo's tears made it into the cooking. She made sure to pack portions for Hinamori.
Who happens to be burning her own okonamiyaki in the kitchen.
"Ah. I messed it up." She's near tears. "Did you have dinner yet, Shiro?"
He places the package on the counter and wounds his arm around her waist. She curls further into herself, sobs on the verge of escaping every limb, but he holds her close and whispers into her ear. "Yeah you burned it but I think it's still edible."
Still entangled with her, he samples a small part from the smoking brown concoction on the stove. Placid reaction gives way to strong grimace. "See, edible."
Momo groans. "I hate you Shiro."
"I love you Momo." His laughter resounds against her untangled hair. Smooth, flowing strands shaking as sobs transform into fits of amusement.
She faces him after a while. "Did you bring earth food?"
He nods. "It's not your favorite pizza, but Orihime's cooking is better than most."
"What did she cook?"
"Okonomiyaki." Her face falls flat from the sudden reminder of her failure. It disappears from his view when he pulls her in for a tight embrace.
Like earlier, his voice travels through her strands, wind to the leaves, water to sand, "Listen. You may not perfect every dish. You may mess up some things. You may not know how to repair the heater. Or keep planks straight when you hammer them in. Dogs may not like you. But you brew the best tea and coffee. You knit the warmest scarves. You sow the most beautiful flowers. The cats love to rub against you. You are my wife and I love you for all that you are."
"You talk so much," she groans against his shoulder. "I'm just hungry."
They laugh again, just as easily.
"Good... morning, taichou."
Normally, it would be Matsumoto slumped against Hitsugaya's shoulders, but on rare occasions that he would go drinking with Shinji (forced really) and his circle, Hitsugaya would always, always, return home intoxicated beyond his limits.
And her captain would always, always, bring this drunken stupor to her doorstep.
Even when they were still branding themselves as childhood best friends ("Of course, we would look out for each other.") When they were sidestepping the line that separates friendly concern to affection. A series of drunken declarations when he thought she was asleep, forgotten in the wake of the mornings as he casually slipped, unaffected, nonchalant, almost stoic from her quarters. ("Do you know, Momo, that I like you? I like you. I like you very, very, very much. I don't know what to do with these feelings. Momo, how do I tell you?") When they thought it was their best, well-kept secret in Soul Society. ("Way to announce you're mine, Shiro, banging on my door like that at 2 AM, calling me your darling?!") It was the best, well-shared secret.
"Hirako, you dumbassss. Why did you bring me to Momo? I'm a mess, look at me," Hitsugaya drawls over his words.
"Don't puke on her when you kiss, all right." Shinji winks at his lieutenant and bids adieu effectively in the dead silence of the night.
"I'm not gonna kisssss yew." Hitsugaya raises his palm and slaps it across his chest. "I am a good sssenpai. And a taichou. And I will not take advantage of yew."
"Shut up and go inside already."
He spots the gold band when she pulls his arm. He's sniffling by the time he makes it to their kitchen.
"Why did I wait so long?"
"Wait to come home?" Hinamori patiently goes through the same motions he does when she's drunk. Boil water. Brew some tea. Sober up.
"Wait to tell you I love you." His sniffles are louder, close to sobbing. "I've always wanted you to be my wife. Gods, I'm so stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid."
"I won't disagree with you on this." This happens every time, and each repeat just makes her fonder of him.
And yes, more annoyed.
But he's endearing when he's moping so he gets a pass.
He clutches her hand tightly. "Is he a good man? Does he love you more than I do? Are you happy?"
Hinamori leans in closer to his space. From this distance, she can smell the alcohol mingling with fresh pine and snow she associates him with. Her palms cup his drooping, tear-stricken face.
"He is a good man that loves me so much and makes me happy every day. I wouldn't have it any other way."
Then she kisses him as he does on nights she doubts his love. A seal of sorts, a magic touch that dispels the stormy clouds, a kiss.
"Momo, you're a married woman."
"And you're my husband, Hitsugaya-taichou."
The snipping of scissors molds with the hummingbirds perched on the blossoming dogwood.
Silver specks litter the hardwood floor. Momo's barefoot protrudes through the strands, his shoulders as her balance.
Her tongue peeks out in concentration as she trims the lengthened threads. It's easy to fall asleep on this cool, spring day while her fingers conduct an orchestra with his hair.
"Do you want an undercut?"
"Please don't make me look like Ichigo or Renji."
"Kira and Yumichika said it's fashionable."
"So why don't they say that to Byakuya?"
"Byakuya has a distinct style."
"And I don't? I'm offended."
"I think you look good in any hair."
"That's what wives say."
She brandishes a mirror in front of him. A relieved sigh leaves him when he sees no noticeable changes. "Great job, Ms. Hinamori. I'll give you a tip."
She kneels in front of him and rests her head on his lap. Her hair falls like waves on the side of his leg. Untangled in her braid, it's a shiny mane. They slip when he twirls his finger around them. "Cut my hair too, Shiro."
"Rukia-style? Or Yumichika?"
"Just don't shave me."
Cut hairs all gone and away and napes exposed to the blossom breeze, they spend the fading afternoon in the awning of the garden. Momo is asleep in his arms, her face dotted with pink petals, and the leaves playing across her features.
Hitsugaya mindlessly traces circles on her arm, navigating to her stomach where a shawl is splayed over. She knitted this some shinigami years ago and the fabric seems to call for his touch. To trace the same shape over and over until he feels the indentation. The slight slope he might miss in passing.
Adrift petals lay their rest right where his hand stopped orbiting.
"Momo?"
She only smiles and places her hand over his, flowers blooming in between the spaces of their fingertips.
"Shiro?"
His throat is heavy. "I'm gonna be a good father." He kisses the crown of her head, and they snuggle closer until twilight takes over the sky.
Fireflies are luminescent under the bridge. The river murmurs in the dark, continuing their voyage to the sea with the green attraction fading in their reflection, a memory drowned.
Momo wanted to rest. Rukia warned her about sore feet and wonky legs in the last few months of the pregnancy.
Hitsugaya would have wanted to carry her back home, if she let him. He's sulking from her stubbornness.
"It's peaceful tonight." Momo breathes in the changing summer air. Autumn has started to dispel its first notes.
"It's peaceful," Hitsugaya echoes. He embraces her from behind, his hands crossed like a prayer over her stomach. "I'm glad it's peaceful."
"But what if there's war again?"
It's not as if Hitsugaya hadn't thought of this already. It haunted his nights. It's a possibility on the back of his head when he attends council meetings, signs paperworks, reads reports. Always on the lookout for the first triggers.
It's a hard thing to keep — peace.
"Then there's another reason to fight for." But sometimes, it comes by easy. "For now, this is peace to me."
The fireflies steer in their direction. Alight and luminous, their reflections are carried by the currents, a memory in voyage.
"Cold!!!!" Hanami bolts through the door. A child around five with brown hair covered in snow and teal irises that are so honest and bare and earnest. There's unbridled happiness in her eyes.
"Can you at least tone down that blush whenever you come home from Byakuya's estate?" Hitsugaya sighs.
"That's because of cold, Shiro," Momo reasons out from the kitchen.
"He made me tea, Papa!"
"As he does to all his guests?"
"No! It's the special tea!" She sticks out her tongue at her father while she quickly shrugs off her outerwear. Then her little feet urgently pad off to settle beside him in the kotetsu. "When I grow up, I'm gonna marry Uncle Byakuya!"
"He's old, Hana-chan."
"No, he's not! He's still handsome!"
"You have poor taste in men, my silly girl."
Momo sweeps into the room with a tray of tea. "That's too bad. You don't have room for Mama's special tea?"
"I have, Mama. The snow outside evaporated the tea earlier." She pats the little space beside her. "Sit Mama! It's cold!"
Lulled in drowse by tea, the family lies side by side on the floor, legs all tangled up under the kotetsu, as the snowstorm builds to a precipice outside.
"Did you enjoy painting with Byakuya?" Hitsugaya asks the growing babe on his shoulder.
Hanami nods. "He was worried I'd get snowed in."
Momo blows raspberries on Hanami's hair. "Was it cold, Hana-chan?"
"Very! He made me wear another coat. It was difficult to walk." She mimics shaking terribly but only ends up laughing. It's contagious, feeling the giggles travel the course of her skin and limbs, and unto her parents.
"Papa never gets cold, right Mama?" Hanami places her hand over their entangled fingers on her stomach.
"No, he never does."
"Are you cold right now, Hana-chan? Do you want me to move away?" Hitsugaya almost shifts out of their hold, but his daughter plants him to his side.
"Silly Papa! You're always so warm." Her button nose red from the cold, and her cheeks flushed pink, Hanami pulls her parents closer to her. "This is the warmest place in the world."