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Entry tags:
Bleach, "Recessional" (Hitsugaya/Hinamori)
Not everything is healed after the war.
Written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
springkink, to the prompt: Hitsugaya/Hinamori: hurt/comfort, reminiscing after the war; "Who are you, the stranger in the shell of a lover,/Dark curtains drawn by the passage of time?" Light suggestion of sexuality, implied? spoilers for Hinamori's involvement in the assault on Aizen.
recessional
She wasn't paying attention to where she was going. She had gotten so much better with flash step that she hardly even needed to think about it; just a step, a lunge, stretching out her power so lightly and then a step, and a lunge. The way that she traveled, skipping late across rooftops and hurtling down alleys between buildings, there were rarely others around to get in her way.
So Momo was completely unprepared when she hurtled straight into someone, the one someone still about, occupying the one square foot of rooftop that she was about to land on. Instead of knocking them both over strong hands grabbed her forearms and steadied her, much to her mortification.
"I'm so sorry--" She started, flustered, pushing herself away, but the hands did not let her go, and for the first time Momo looked up into turquoise eyes and felt a lurching sensation of recognition.
"Hitsugaya-kun," she said reflexively, and then hastened to correct, "Hitsugaya-taichou."
His expression, if anything, darkened. He was still holding onto her arms, as if he thought she might flee if he let her go.
Momo made her eyes go wide, and she asked him innocently, "Are you late, too?"
That made him snort derisively. "Of course I'm not. Who do you think I am?"
And that made her smile briefly, and for a moment it felt like old times, like what had once been familiar was again familiar. But the similarity was on the surface only: it had been decades since the last time they spoke (in Rukongai, in soft hushed tones, for his grandmother's passing-on) and the last time they had been close he had been half this height, with a slight frame that belied the immensity of the reiatsu she had always known he possessed without ever sensing for herself.
And she had been a silly, stupid girl, who had still believed -- in things like happy endings in which everyone was saved, and dreams that really did come true, and good people.
"I'm sorry," Momo said, tugging a little to reclaim her arms. He relinquished one, and she scowled at him briefly, but brushed off her shihakusho quickly. "I am late to get to the lieutenant's meeting, though--"
"It was canceled," he said. "You'd know that if you were anything like on time."
Momo faltered a bit. "Oh."
He was watching her, and she couldn't really read his expression. It had been a very long time since they'd last been close, after all, and everything about him was so different now -- face barely even familiar.
"I guess I'll see if I can find Ise-san, then--"
"It's been a long time," he said.
It took her a beat to catch up, and then she laughed. "We see each other all the time!"
"We pass each other all the time. Don't play stupid."
She preferred to think of it as artful misinterpretation. Momo laughed again, shrugging off his other hand and lifting it to brush off her sleeve; this time he let her. "Well, it's easy to fix that," she said. "The 5th Division is having a flower-viewing this weekend. Why don't you come?"
For some reason he looked startled, and then some tension left the set of his shoulders beneath the clean line of his haori. "--sure. Okay."
Momo gave him a bright smile. "See?" she said, skipping back a step. "That wasn't such a big deal."
Then she stepped, flinging herself several rooftops away towards the Eighth Division buildings, and her heart was pounding and she didn't know why.
The thing was, she couldn't really give a reason why they had stopped talking. If she had been asked she would have vehemently insisted that she never wanted that to happen. At first she hadn't been able to see him, and then they had each been busy, and then something important had always come up or there was always someone else to talk to, and in truth maybe part of her had been avoiding him.
Momo knew better than to blame him for what had happened. She knew exactly where the blame for that rested. But still when she had thought of Hitsugaya-kun, suddenly she thought of being cold, so cold all over, except for the burning pain in her chest; she thought of that one horrible instant when she realized that the man she had idolized and the boy she had adored had both tried to kill her.
She had been very fragile, then. With no defenses against that sort of hurt.
But Momo wasn't that same little girl. There was nothing wrong with being friends with Hitsugaya-kun, had never been, and it was almost strange how easy it was to fall into a routine with him again. In almost no time at all they were close, as if nothing had happened.
This time, though, when they sat together to eat lunch, there was a flicker of something when their hands brushed. When his gaze lingered a little too long on her, she could feel it. And she thought inane things like how strange it was that he was so warm, when she clutched at his hand as they walked back from a festival, and when she kissed him and he stopped breathing.
"Did you ever dream we would end up like this?" she laughed against his lips, and he muttered, "Idiot. Every day."
After that it was almost without flaw, wonderful and serene, each touch lighting her up inside with a kind of wholeness that she hadn't felt in ages -- maybe hadn't ever. But when he brushed her yukata aside, and his fingers brushed the scar there, that one tense moment seemed to last forever, stretching out the happiness until it might break.
A hardness came to his features, but still his touch was so gentle -- even though it trembled -- as he brushed the faded mark twisting her skin. Momo drew in a breath, reflex, and his gaze jolted up to her face.
"Did I hurt you?"
"N-- no," she said, and laughed shakily. "It just -- suddenly felt a little..."
Cold.
Hitsugaya-kun glanced down again, and pressed his lips to the scar, so soft. She could feel his shoulders shake, the brief touch of wet that she thought might be a tear, and for the first time she thought, It's okay.
Momo curled her arms behind him and held him close, and when she woke up in the morning with him still pressed against her like a child all over again, the cold was gone.
Written for
springkink, to the prompt: Hitsugaya/Hinamori: hurt/comfort, reminiscing after the war; "Who are you, the stranger in the shell of a lover,/Dark curtains drawn by the passage of time?" Light suggestion of sexuality, implied? spoilers for Hinamori's involvement in the assault on Aizen.recessional
She wasn't paying attention to where she was going. She had gotten so much better with flash step that she hardly even needed to think about it; just a step, a lunge, stretching out her power so lightly and then a step, and a lunge. The way that she traveled, skipping late across rooftops and hurtling down alleys between buildings, there were rarely others around to get in her way.
So Momo was completely unprepared when she hurtled straight into someone, the one someone still about, occupying the one square foot of rooftop that she was about to land on. Instead of knocking them both over strong hands grabbed her forearms and steadied her, much to her mortification.
"I'm so sorry--" She started, flustered, pushing herself away, but the hands did not let her go, and for the first time Momo looked up into turquoise eyes and felt a lurching sensation of recognition.
"Hitsugaya-kun," she said reflexively, and then hastened to correct, "Hitsugaya-taichou."
His expression, if anything, darkened. He was still holding onto her arms, as if he thought she might flee if he let her go.
Momo made her eyes go wide, and she asked him innocently, "Are you late, too?"
That made him snort derisively. "Of course I'm not. Who do you think I am?"
And that made her smile briefly, and for a moment it felt like old times, like what had once been familiar was again familiar. But the similarity was on the surface only: it had been decades since the last time they spoke (in Rukongai, in soft hushed tones, for his grandmother's passing-on) and the last time they had been close he had been half this height, with a slight frame that belied the immensity of the reiatsu she had always known he possessed without ever sensing for herself.
And she had been a silly, stupid girl, who had still believed -- in things like happy endings in which everyone was saved, and dreams that really did come true, and good people.
"I'm sorry," Momo said, tugging a little to reclaim her arms. He relinquished one, and she scowled at him briefly, but brushed off her shihakusho quickly. "I am late to get to the lieutenant's meeting, though--"
"It was canceled," he said. "You'd know that if you were anything like on time."
Momo faltered a bit. "Oh."
He was watching her, and she couldn't really read his expression. It had been a very long time since they'd last been close, after all, and everything about him was so different now -- face barely even familiar.
"I guess I'll see if I can find Ise-san, then--"
"It's been a long time," he said.
It took her a beat to catch up, and then she laughed. "We see each other all the time!"
"We pass each other all the time. Don't play stupid."
She preferred to think of it as artful misinterpretation. Momo laughed again, shrugging off his other hand and lifting it to brush off her sleeve; this time he let her. "Well, it's easy to fix that," she said. "The 5th Division is having a flower-viewing this weekend. Why don't you come?"
For some reason he looked startled, and then some tension left the set of his shoulders beneath the clean line of his haori. "--sure. Okay."
Momo gave him a bright smile. "See?" she said, skipping back a step. "That wasn't such a big deal."
Then she stepped, flinging herself several rooftops away towards the Eighth Division buildings, and her heart was pounding and she didn't know why.
The thing was, she couldn't really give a reason why they had stopped talking. If she had been asked she would have vehemently insisted that she never wanted that to happen. At first she hadn't been able to see him, and then they had each been busy, and then something important had always come up or there was always someone else to talk to, and in truth maybe part of her had been avoiding him.
Momo knew better than to blame him for what had happened. She knew exactly where the blame for that rested. But still when she had thought of Hitsugaya-kun, suddenly she thought of being cold, so cold all over, except for the burning pain in her chest; she thought of that one horrible instant when she realized that the man she had idolized and the boy she had adored had both tried to kill her.
She had been very fragile, then. With no defenses against that sort of hurt.
But Momo wasn't that same little girl. There was nothing wrong with being friends with Hitsugaya-kun, had never been, and it was almost strange how easy it was to fall into a routine with him again. In almost no time at all they were close, as if nothing had happened.
This time, though, when they sat together to eat lunch, there was a flicker of something when their hands brushed. When his gaze lingered a little too long on her, she could feel it. And she thought inane things like how strange it was that he was so warm, when she clutched at his hand as they walked back from a festival, and when she kissed him and he stopped breathing.
"Did you ever dream we would end up like this?" she laughed against his lips, and he muttered, "Idiot. Every day."
After that it was almost without flaw, wonderful and serene, each touch lighting her up inside with a kind of wholeness that she hadn't felt in ages -- maybe hadn't ever. But when he brushed her yukata aside, and his fingers brushed the scar there, that one tense moment seemed to last forever, stretching out the happiness until it might break.
A hardness came to his features, but still his touch was so gentle -- even though it trembled -- as he brushed the faded mark twisting her skin. Momo drew in a breath, reflex, and his gaze jolted up to her face.
"Did I hurt you?"
"N-- no," she said, and laughed shakily. "It just -- suddenly felt a little..."
Cold.
Hitsugaya-kun glanced down again, and pressed his lips to the scar, so soft. She could feel his shoulders shake, the brief touch of wet that she thought might be a tear, and for the first time she thought, It's okay.
Momo curled her arms behind him and held him close, and when she woke up in the morning with him still pressed against her like a child all over again, the cold was gone.
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I love his iron grip on her right at first, where she's pretty oblivious but clearly he's doing it out of anxiety at seeing her again properly and a desperate need for her not to go and slip away again.
It's almost not fair that she feels the electricity between them for the first time, when he's wanted her for so long, and that she thinks it's all new and different -- but Hitsugaya is never going to even try to impress upon her how true it was when he said he said he thought about this every day. The waiting IS sad, but he doesn't care about it, it's irrelevant to the present (except as a scowl he can't suppress when she actually says something as oblivious as, "Did you ever dream we'd end up like this?").
And the ending is peeerfect, with the mending it represents. ♥♥
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I enjoyed this - it was nice to see such a literal interpretation of the prompt and the distance that is between Hitsugaya/Momo is very plausible.
The ending line was a great touch. ♥
*adds to memories*
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