A/N: I have an algebra I final on Tuesday, so I won't get much work in after this. Not that I update chapters that often, eh? This chapter was...interesting to write. I'll leave you to interpret it for yourself. Oh, and I note, I'm not actually doing this for LJ, I'm not a member there. I did it because I liked the idea and it kind of fit my style. So, enjoy.

5. Number 24: Good night

He who is Hitsugaya Toshiro walks through fields of dried blood, dead flowers, and colorless ice without a second glance; without meaning yet meaningful. His path through bland skies has lead him through hardship and disappointment.

Now he asks himself, has his path lead him to confusion?

He wonders who has left the faint marks of their footprints against his path, and whose footsteps which stain his dispassionate perfection.

As he looks behind him, he sees a trail of footprints. He frowns. They follow him this whole time, almost as if they were his own. He sees the shadow of the being that leaves them: Hinamori Momo. The footprints begin imprinted so deeply he can almost swear that they are his own. They continue like that for what seems to be an eternity, and then they fade so quickly that they almost disappear. He understands that: Her moving into the Gotei 13, and the growing attachment to Aizen.

Angry, he who is Hitsugaya Toshiro.

Slowly, the footprints grow stronger again, wavering, but still moving on. There is one thing, though: Even as her footprints press deeper into his frigid, empty path, they move farther and farther away.

A few steps away from where he has stopped, looking at the mark feet had left upon otherwise unstained whiteness, the two patterns of footsteps press together again.

He knows what that means.

Sniffing with annoyance, he turns forward, and continues walking.

The lieutenant of the fifth division eats a tasty sushi roll from her paper bag while sitting on a bench near her residence. The sweet, but still frosty March air shifts slightly around her as a breeze picks up. She finishes the roll, but has barely tasted it, her hands merely moving with the instinct to eat.

The failed attempt at a picnic with Hitsugaya leaves Hinamori blinking with sudden fatigue. This is not who Hinamori is. Momo is the kind of shinigami who is always upbeat and cheerful, always with something to do, whether that “something” means battling hollows to protect spirit below, petrified with fear, or volunteering to sweep the floor in the fourth division headquarters.

Aizen-taichou,

The thought comes to her head with sudden, disturbing certainty. That habit has never left her, haunting her still. Before, all spaces were filled by the all-encompassing presence of her brown-haired, softly smiling captain.

How innocent she was then. How could she not realize that he was too perfect to be true: Saying just enough: not too much so she would be annoyed, not too little so that she would still have questions. How was it that he would be at just the right place at the right time, always there for her to look at and draw strength from?

Impossible.

She had been captivated from the moment he had settled his large, creased hand atop her battle-tousled chocolate hair in that dummy hollow exercise. Her innocent heart, just waiting for someone to devote herself to, had chosen him. And without hesitation or second thought, she had poured her heart, soul, and body into work for “Aizen-taichou”.

Just as he had planned it.

That filthy traitor he was, he knew the way people’s minds worked. But unlike Retsu Unohana, who poured her remarkable powers and understanding of psychology into working for the well-being of the mentally unstable shinigami who would constantly stumble into her squad headquarters, he would manipulate people with his knowledge of their minds. He had seen Hinamori, the most gentle and trusting of the threesome consisting of her, Kira Izuru, and Abarai Renji, and he had seen her potential 

and the possibilities there were if she directed her potential powers for his use without being aware of it.

Simply brilliant.

And he still maintains his hold over her now, her stupid brain had just proved that when she turned to good, great “Aizen-taichou” for help.

What had Hitsugaya-kun thought of it?

Her own question takes her by surprise, and leaves her with too many questions.

Deep down inside, she wishes Aizen was back.

No.

That can’t be right.

Who does she wish was here?

Tobiume, her ever-faithful zanpakuto, does not speak to her, merely waits, without words, for her master to think again. Part of her is annoyed, angry at her sword’s silence and unwillingness to console or advise her, another part is grateful for the sword’s understanding.

Firstly, as her zanpakuto understands, this is a question she must answer alone.

Secondly, she doesn’t know the answer.

Thirdly, she really, really doesn’t want to think about it.

It is dark, and late. Hinamori lies upon her bed, deep in the caverns of her mind.

Darkness is so easy to sink into.

She can feel its soft lips pulling at her whole being as she stares up into the ceiling, fingers sweeping against her futon, and then tumbling off its surface to rest against the tatami mats that make up the flooring of her room.

The darkness beckons to her, the only force acting upon her fragile mind. No moonlight or starshine shows through her windows or shōji. It speaks to her with a voice that resonates with a thousand tones, compressing the voices of every person close to her into one, echoing through nothingness.

Even with Unohana’s soft, sympathetic therapy, the nightmares get worse every time; with every passing day the darkness becomes a little blacker, gains a little more power. She knows that soon she’ll get sucked in, giving up all her hope for a clean future.

The darkness slides a deformed hand out towards her.

Come to me, Hinamori.

No, no!

Come.

Her defense is weakening.

Come to me, Momo.

Yes…

“Hinamori!”

He doesn’t know how his feet have carried him to Hinamori’s quarters, doesn’t know why had taken that little turn down the smooth, time-worn cobblestone path that led to her living area in the fifth.

He’s come here many times, especially when he was first promoted into the Gotei 13. Though he would vehemently deny it, he knew that those first months were awkward. He hated feeling awkward. It didn’t suit him. He was the child prodigy who could silence his sensei at the academy with a glance slipped over his thin, bony shoulder; the was the child prodigy who could walk the halls of any place in the entire Soul Society without any discomfort or second thought; he was natural, he was 

gifted. People who were natural and gifted were not awkward. That was one of the simple, natural laws of life.

Eventually, he lost the initial cautious shyness and had taken to visiting Hinamori as more of a habit. This suited him much more.

He looks up at the night sky, pausing to take a breath of frosty air.

The moon is peaceful and serene, the very epitome of grace. The night sky is not velvet as they say, it is a beautifully embroidered cotton spread. The sky is not perfectly flat and flowing. Stars are embroidered upon the dark blue-black-brown spread, tiny teardrops of silver-white. Where the seamstress accidentally pricked a hole in the cloth or scratched it, there is a little streak or dot that disrupts the flow of darkness.

The stars are still the most beautiful. They shine like tears. Beautiful, but sorrowful.

Like those tiny pearl-shaped globes of water that would shine on Momo’s cheek, illuminated by lamplight, as she lay on her hospital bed.

His thoughts travel no further as he detects the first spike in Hinamori’s reiatsu. This is undoubtedly irregular. While in sleep, nightmares and dreams sometimes cause small irregularities in reiatsu, but he knew from minimal training in the Academy that such spikes weren’t usually normal.

He declares shunpo unnecessary. Instead, he takes off for Momo’s room at a run. Not nearly as fast, but still a very good speed.

Throwing the door open, he realizes there is no source of light. Grimacing, he fumbled through the dark room, his progress faster when he detects Hinamori’s sharp breaths and little cries, as well as the faint scent of tears and salt. After what seems to be an eternity, he feels the cloth of her bed.

“Hinamori!”

There’s someone in her room, she knows.

But that’s just reality; reality is soon to be beyond her.

She steps forward willingly, instantly feeling the dark, slippery vines closing around her.

The blackness deepens, seeping into her veins and arteries, staining her blood.

Her body is caked in sweat, but the moisture is as cold as ice.

“Hinamori! Hinamori!” He shakes her, and her eyelashes twitch.

Someone’s trying to drag her out, she knows.

But that’s just reality; reality is soon to be beyond her.

Why would she want to leave this gentle embrace?

It’s just like the way Aizen would hold her, infinitely comforting.

“Momo!” He calls. This is odd. Why isn’t she waking up?

He pushes at her body, hands slipping on sweat. He panics. What’s going on with her? Beyond caring for her physical well-being, he shakes her body relentlessly, every slight twitch of an eyelid or jerk of her eyebrow pushing him on.

Something’s distorting the darkness, she knows?

But that’s just reality.

She’s caught between reality and darkness now.

But her decision is made; darkness is so comforting.

“Please, MOMO!” This is bad, he knows. Her reiatsu is tossed between ominous calm and abnormal spikes.

But reality is so vivid.

Though stained with imperfection, it is such a strong force.

Her friends;

Her achievements;

Every day spent on relentless training;

Every scar and bruise that ruins her delicate ivory skin.

Everything she worked for in her life. Is she ready to let it go?

Yes, the darkness says, Yes.

“No!”

But reality disagrees.

What does she really want?

He calls to her relentlessly. Her reiatsu is spiking more, now. How should he interpret that? Is that good, or is that bad? He doesn’t care, all he wants is to see her chocolate-mousse-brown eyes blink open again.

No. No, she’s not ready to let go yet. The darkness fights, but reality grows brighter by the second. Her eyes start to open; she can’t see anything.

Suddenly, everything flares into technicolor. As her eyes adjust, she realizes it’s only the soft yellowish light of a candle.

Someone is crouched before her, eyebrows scrunched with concentration and concern. The eyes are aqua with highlights of white and orange from the candlelight. The hair is of the purest white, rising slightly upwards in elegant spikes.

She knows that eye, that nose, that mouth, that high cheekbone, that slightly sun-tanned skin, that somewhat pointed chin.

She’s known it forever.

The face smiles. Toshiro’s face smiles.

“Thank goodness, Hinamori.”

He envelops her in a tight, heartfelt embrace. She obliges, tentatively wrapping her weak arms around his middle.

Right now, they’re just friends - friends who have been through disaster and hardship, but still friends.

The best of friends; their hearts and minds linked together.