Credit for poetry quoted in this chapter:
Henry Austin Dobson
A Song of the Four Seasons

Winter seemed to last forever. The long nights were spent curled together in a pile of blankets, no one under his gran's roof having any reasonable objection to them sharing a bed when they would have been, should have been married already had he not run off after receiving the alarming letter from his father, had his precious idiot not followed and nearly gotten killed trying to play hero. The bright days were spent on gradually lengthening walks to regain strength. Sometimes, Toshiro wished that the winter would never end, content with his family around the fire, Ichigo's obnoxious father, loving mother, happy sisters coming frequently to join them, making the little house crowded and warm.

Inexorably, the seasons turned. Spring was a flurry of activity, the work he and Ichigo had barely started became the pet project of the entire village. Toshiro was not the only one that loved Ichigo, a fact he tried not to be jealous of. His Summer was too bright to hide him away, and everyone adored the warmth and light Ichigo brought to all.

It was a small but charming home just at the edge of the forest, on the other side of the orchard Ichigo's grandfather had given to them before he died. There was solitude, a bit of privacy to ease the anxiety that still crept upon him after too much time in the company of others than his Summer. It was near enough to the village and the fields to be easy for Ichigo. It was the ideal place to start their new life together, and the hands of everyone they knew had a part in creating it. His father and his soon-to-be husband were there, too, hammering and sawing, polishing and painting, every movement watched by gran who was ready to beat both men within an inch of their lives if they ruined her work getting them back on their feet.

It was at times almost intolerable, almost too painful the way his heart, his mind, his gut, everything in him came alive and sung when he so much as caught a glimpse of that sunlight smile or that silly orange hair. He was granted a reprieve as the days grew warmer, a rest for his heart that surely would not survive the constant jolts with each touch of fingers once again becoming bronzed and strong. Though there was no bride, and certainly, he thought with both a smirk and a blush, no virgin, Ichigo's romantic parents insisted on tradition, including a period of separation before the wedding. A week apart was both torture and relief, and not surprisingly difficult to achieve in such a small, close-knit community.

"There, that should do it. My goodness, Toshiro, you've grown half a foot over the winter! And at eighteen. I swear you did it just to ruin my work."

"Really, I am sorry Kurosa . . ."

"Do not make me stab you with this pin."

". . . Masaki."

"Or you could try mother."

His smile was more like a grimace. It wasn't that he didn't love her. He loved Masaki more than he could ever express, and the twins, and even Ichigo's crazy father. Toshiro just never felt comfortable with displaying affection in word let alone deed. There had only ever been one exception to that, one person who was the exception to everything. So, he evaded with little grace.

"It is quite beautiful," he said for the hundredth time, admiring the precise stitching of silver thread turning a plain white robe into something unbelievably precious, then froze as she stood and cupped her hand against his cheek for just a moment.

"You are beautiful, my boy. My son always was the lucky one."

Though he could not bring himself to respond to her compliment nor the many others he received, the attention wound his nerves even tighter, urging him to run. He wanted Ichigo to run with him, away from all of them, away to their little cottage where they could lock the door and pretend to be the only two people in the world for at least a few years, long enough to forget how damned social he had been forced to be for endless weeks. He knew the separation from his love made it worse, the anxiety, the growing fear that he did not deserve this, that he was not and could never be good enough for his magnificent Summer.

As the small procession accompanying the 'bride' rounded the corner out of the village, the shrine came into view and with it the greater crowd gathered outside the stone rotunda, throwing flowers and cheering, ready to devour him whole in their noise and enthusiasm. A flash of pure panic, and he was searching for an escape route even as his feet continued forward.

His eye caught something remarkably out of place, and yet as he paused and stared, nothing in the world seemed to belong nearly as much. It was under one of the largest sakura trees, standing beneath the vault of fragrant pink petals. It took a moment for his mind to process . . . well, of course it was simply a man, what else would it be? A stranger, yet his racing heart calmed as if seeing an old friend. Though what would Toshiro know of old friends; he had no such connections.

The man was beautiful, a word used to describe him so many times today, inaccurately, for this man was the second most beautiful creature he'd ever laid eyes on, aristocratic mien, raven-black hair held back with silver adornments, clear gray eyes that held an inhuman wisdom. And the man smiled gently, a smile Toshiro seemed to know was as rare as his own, and he could see it clearly despite the distance.

An elegant hand was raised, heavy silk sleeve of red with pink blossoms, pale palm flashing in a brief salutation. Before he could return the gesture that felt oddly like a blessing, a gust of wind sent a flurry of pink petals swirling across the hillside. When the wind settled, the vision was gone, leaving behind only a sense of profound peace and well-being.

His father's concerned prodding recalled him to the world, and he smiled gently, assuring everyone that he was alright. He was more than alright. Though it was merely a formality at this point, he was about to marry the man he loved and adored and worshipped, the only person he felt ever really understood him, the man who saw all his flaws and said sincerely that each one was beautiful.

oooooooOOOOOooooooo

"Good morning, love. Breakfast?"

Their usual routine never failed to cheer him up, not that he truly needed any more happiness in his life. It was a mere bonus that the autumn morning's chill brought a rosy flush to his husband's pale cheeks and a decidedly brighter gleam to already stunning eyes. Every morning, rain, snow, or shine, Toshiro went to the shrine at dawn. His husband was now the unofficial keeper of the holy place, regarded as particularly pious by the townsfolk, though any comment or look that complimented Toshiro's religious dedication was met with a dark scowl or a cutting remark usually too clever for the insulted part to understand.

Ichigo found it all charming, hiding his fond smiles at such moments and redoubling his efforts to distract his prickly love from the rest of the world.

"Ah, watermelon at breakfast. What are you apologizing for?"

The infamous scowl was turned on him, though it wasn't the same one his Winter turned on others. This particular glower was just for him, barely masking exasperated affection.

"Haven't done anything," he answered honestly in the face of the suspicious glare, "yet. But you know, I've been thinking."

"You really should leave dangerous things to me, Ichigo."

"Har, har. It's just, I know we gave your gran's house to that family," he spoke slowly, remembering how the usually stoic man had sobbed for days. Even Toshiro's father's death had been easier on him, on them both. "But I thought maybe we could afford to do a little more."

A deep sigh, and the gem eyes dropped. Rather than grief or anger, Toshiro just seemed suddenly bored, the way he would when Ichigo was saying something stupid or rambling on about people his husband didn't care about. He tried not to feel irritated at the dismissive air. This was important.

"Some of the kids that brought in the harvest with me have been helping with building the new barn, and a few of them want to hire on for next planting season. It's going to be nice having some extra hands again, what with Karin and Yuzu grown and busy with their own families."

"Mm-hmm."

"Anyway, there's that one kid, Kazui, you've met him, the one with red hair. He's been there every day. Comin' today, too, I expect. And the Kotetsu's took him in along with a bunch of others, but it's really crowded and he's the youngest, not that he'd ever complain. Kids got a heart of gold."

Orphaned at only six, he didn't say, not wanting this to be about emotional manipulation. Toshiro knew all this, anyway. His husband understood better than most when the small pack of refugees found their way over the mountain pass into the valley. Toshiro had been one of the first and the most generous to offer help, knowing first-hand the violence and sorrow that came with war.

"So, I was thinking, that workshop we're building into the barn, I know it's to give you more room for better tools and all, but while we're still building we could make some adjustments, maybe give up some space to add a small bedroom. He'd earn his food, he's a good worker, but I know you've always wanted that shop, and I won't do anything you don't want. So. What do you think?"

Another deep sigh, and his husband was leaning forward over the half-empty plate to stare intently into his eyes. He held his breath.

"I think you are an idiot. I've been waiting years, and I want the workshop exactly as we planned it." His heart sank. True, Toshiro didn't like kids, didn't like humans in general. And the man hated not having privacy, which would undoubtedly be an issue with a young boy around. Still, he'd thought . . .

"There will be plenty of room out there for all my things, and I'll get some peace from your yammering on the days you're home if I move the rest of my equipment out of the spare bedroom. It doesn't make sense for me to work in two places, and it certainly doesn't make sense for Kazui to live in the barn if he's going to be part of the family."

He was around the table and in his husband's lap before he knew it, kissing the smirking lips for all he was worth. The clever bastard didn't even have the grace to look surprised, moving his chair back from the table before Ichigo had heard the word "family" and started to move. Ichigo was the one surprised, and a bit ashamed, as always, by how he could have forgotten for one second that his chilly, harsh Winter hid the most generous spirit and giving heart he had ever imagined.

oooooooOOOOOooooooo

He heard the well-known pattern of Ichigo's footsteps, the crunch swishing of long grass joining the peaceful symphony of birdsong, humming insects, rustling leaves. Late summer was too hot for his taste, but the evening was promising relief, particularly here under the orchard trees, his favorite place to relax in rare solitude.

"Alright?"

"Mmm."

Eyes still closed, watching the shadows of bright light through swaying branches, he felt his husband settle on the blanket next to him. In this, too, Ichigo was the exception, his presence not in the least disturbing the peace he had desperately needed.

"They're all packing up to go. Kazui said he'll be back alone in a couple of days to help break up that monster oak. What are you planning for it, anyway?"

He hadn't meant to flee from family, the house full of loved ones. Sometimes, it just became overwhelming with very little warning. His husband and his son knew this about him, and forgave him without being asked. He was still beyond happy to have them visit, particularly his brand new grandson. What a thought, him a grandfather, and to such a perfect, beautiful boy. The first time he had held Natsuo, precious and tiny and new, had reminded him of the first moment he had seen Ichigo. Back then, he had never suspected his heart was capable of holding so much for so many.

"Beams."

"Huh? Thought it was going to be something fancy."

It was, indeed. It was not always the things that caught the eye that truly mattered.

"Kazui's house is going to need an addition."

"It's plenty big enough."

He cracked one eye open, turning his head slightly to find Ichigo propped on an elbow, staring intently at him. He stared back, taking in the serene happiness, the lines etched by laughter and hard work in the blazing sun. His Summer had always been beautiful, but the maturity of a middle-aged man suited him well. Then again, he suspected he would always look into those cherished russet eyes year after year and think, now . . . now he is at his most breathtaking.

"They'll have at least two more. How could they resist after meeting Natsuo?"

His smile, he was sure, had the same ghost of longing in it, under the tender wonder. It was too much to ask after the miracle of finding one another, the miracle of their life together, but he had never been able to stop himself from imagining what it would have been like, what their child would have looked like. And yet, they had Kazui, their remarkable boy, more a part of them both than they could have asked for. And now Natsuo, along with the promise of more, of a growing family; it was more than enough.

"Oh, did I mention? Airi is pregnant again."

White teeth flashed at him as he let out a heavy sigh. As if their little family wasn't becoming too large to handle, Yuzu's four daughters seemed inclined to double the population of the village all on their own.

"This town is getting too big, Ichigo. I think we should look into moving someplace quieter."

Ichigo told him he was a terrible liar, and he was, and he sighed again under the onslaught of chuckling kisses. It was still and always a mystery to him, how he had ended up in the center of all this beauty and love, but he couldn't deny that there was nowhere else he could even dream of being.

oooooooOOOOOooooooo

"Dad? You in there?"

He sighed, carefully straightening and stretching, wiping off and setting aside the gouge, going through a little personal ritual to withdraw his mind from his work. Kazui was in the doorway by the time he looked, struggling to hold on to a squirming toddler.

"Now, Kazui," his voice was loud and stern, "what have I told you about children in the workshop? Especially this little terror."

Said terror squealed and giggled, wriggling so much that her grandfather's strong hands were not strong enough. Only just turned two and she moved like a small tornado, stirring a cloud of wood curls and sawdust as she sprang forward. He scooped her up, ignoring the way his back complained now about such a light weight, holding her out and up and giving the lightest little shake as if she was a naughty puppy.

"Horrible child, bothering an old man while he's working."

Her bubbling laugh was the most beautiful sound in the world. Well, maybe the second, behind Ichigo's laughter. Or third, because there was Ichigo's singing to consider. Okay, solid fifth, mustn't forget Ichigo's deep moans and that whimpering noise he'd make when Toshiro's tongue . . .

"Dad, you seen Pop?"

He drew his great-granddaughter close against his shoulder, letting her nuzzle into his hair, same obsession as her great-grandfather. For all they weren't actually related, little Masaki was Ichigo's blood through and through.

"Ah, yes. Your fool father managed to sprain his wrist and beak two fingers helping clear out the boulders in Madarame's new pasture. Like that muscle-bound moron needs any help. But try to tell your father he's too old to be doing farm-work anymore, and there he'll be, hauling 80-pound rocks. He's down at the healer's. Should be back any minute."

His adopted son had stepped forward, running a calloused hand down the last section of rough, unfinished wood. This was the headboard, the actual art. The frame and decorative but not elaborate posts were done and stored to the side of the workshop, near the other project that no one spoke of except him and Ichigo.

"It's beautiful, Dad. I think It might be the finest thing you've ever made."

Not true, the other final project was the finest thing he'd ever made. But he was very proud of it, and it would be the last detailed work, he knew. His hands couldn't do it anymore, each carving taking ages. It was for the little one in his arms, though he had started it before she was born, their first and so far only great-grandchild.

Toshiro wasn't modest about his work, even if most of his life was spent making more practical things, shovels and shelves, spoons and strainers, humble items needed by every family. This was a masterpiece, one he expected to be an heirloom, surviving through generations.

The scene on the headboard was a common theme, uncommonly done, the four seasons depicted in quarters around a sunburst in the center. The broad quadrant on top - glorious summer fields of wheat and trees heavy with fat leaves and fruit. Autumn to the right with a riot of leaves inlayed with rich woods of pale yellow to deep red, needing no stain. Winter at the bottom, dark woods with flecks of quartz, a ribbon of mother of pearl a frozen river. And soft spring to the left, flowers and delicate leaves under carvings of sakura blossoms. He hadn't been able to get the color right without staining, which he refused to do, but he'd managed a glossy deep red myrtle with polished rose quartz embedded.

"Pretty."

"There you have it." He tickled Masaki's chin just to make her laugh again. "And the customer's always right. Come on. I should knock the dust off and make some lunch."

That got Kazui's attention. He had Ichigo's appetite and feeding the two of them would mean another trip to the market tomorrow. He followed the boy, now a 48-year-old grandfather, and didn't that just beat all, as Kazui started chatting about his son Natsuo, Masaki's father, who was what passed for the local wiseman. Toshiro took credit for that, finding at last someone who wanted to share his love of books and study nature, history, anything that he could get his hands on.

As he shuttered the lamp, his eyes ran over the almost finished double coffin, the one Kazui quite obviously did not glance at. It was far simpler in appearance than the headboard, far more complex in execution, the work of years with all his skill and love poured into every line. Kazui and the rest of the family pretended it didn't exist, like the lack of a final resting place meant the two old patriarchs would never die. They thought it morbid, as well, the clear expectation that one of them would not outlive the other.

Only Ichigo understood, sitting with him when he was carving, helping with polishing and setting hinges, running his magnificent hands over the elaborate wood. The theme was the same, spring and autumn scenes on the narrower ends, summer and winter on the long panels. But the design was far more subtle, seemingly random though pleasing swirls of various types of wood that only formed a picture when you weren't quite looking.

And on the top, their names, along with two verses of their song. How many times had they sat together, singing to one another while Toshiro etched the words deep? He'd lost count. He would sing, shy and quiet, though Ichigo always said his voice was beautiful.

When comes the Summer
Full-leaved and strong,
And gay birds gossip
The orchard long,-
Sing hid, sweet honey
That no bee sips;
Sing red, red roses,-
And my Love's lips.

And Ichigo would answer in his clear, bright tenor.

But when comes Winter
With hail and storm,
And red fire roaring
And ingle warm,-
Sing first sad going
Of friends that part;
Then sing glad meeting,-
And my Love's heart.

They would be buried in the orchard, on the little hill where he so often dragged his husband out in the chill night to gaze at the stars.

They would leave this world together, it was inevitable.

oooooooOOOOOooooooo

He climbed the little hill that seemed to get bigger and steeper every time, not to mention someone kept moving it farther and farther away from the house. An extra blanket was slung over his shoulder; Toshiro never did bring enough, the cold-blooded man who swore he was not the embodiment of Winter. At least they were meeting during the relative warmth of late morning, Ichigo's early farm chores done, Toshiro's trip to the shrine, which started later in the day now and took longer, finished. A small bottle of plum wine swung in his hand, a little extra warmth to share cuddling under the bare peach trees.

He slowed as the fluffy blanket came into view, and the man resting atop the thick cotton and brocaded pillows. Then he stopped, stood absolutely still while he prayed to nameless gods for strength and stared at the hair, white and thick as always, ruffled by the bitter breeze, the features he had memorized a thousand times on a thousand days, now aged and wrinkled and achingly beautiful.

"Good morning, love. Well, almost good afternoon. Couple of lazy old coots, we are."

He had to catch his breath before the final few steps, careful steps, quiet steps, old knees shaking a little as he knelt and gently set the bottle down, then laid his tired body down next to the man he loved. With a deep sigh, he let his head rest on the pillows, staring up at the clear sky the color of Toshiro's eyes. He could stare forever.

"Brought the last of Kazui's wine. And I don't want to hear any of that 'that stuff's too sweet' when you drink twice as much as I do."

Somehow, he'd always thought it would be in the summer. Could be autumn, even spring, but not winter. Technically, he could say he was right, since the ice had broken the day before, signaling the long-awaited change of the seasons.

Seventy-nine was old. Only a few months ago, the family had gathered for Toshiro's eightieth birthday. Toshiro's grandmother had made it to eighty-seven, the old healer was eighty-five this year. He couldn't imagine it, not when every bit of him constantly ached as if he'd been working in the fields dawn to dusk for a week.

"We got four eggs today. You were right about moving the chickens in next to the workshop for the heat. Of course you were," his voice trailed off, "you're always right, love."

Seventy-nine. And he'd been just shy of his thirteenth birthday when his Winter blew in, exotic, new, wounded, enchanting. He remembered himself at age eight, at ten, at twelve, a happy and active kid, barely a care in the world and no idea how incomplete he was. Still didn't when he was fourteen and kissed those shy lips the first time, just there, not ten feet away, with the thousand diamonds hanging from the bare branches all around. It was certainly a major milestone in his life to lose his virginity to his beautiful Winter at sixteen, but the kid he was couldn't have known that Toshiro would be the only person he'd ever want again until the day he died. The kid he had been had, however, had suspected that one day he would be old and gray and still very foolishly in love with the exotic beauty that had fallen into his life like a miracle.

"Natsuo's coming by later." His elbow protested as he propped himself up and turned onto his hip to see that lovely face. "He wanted me to tell you he's bringing maps. Kinda curious to know where he got them."

Well, he had Toshiro and all the things that came from loving him. His son, his grandsons and granddaughters, his great-grandchildren. His home, thick with memories of love and loss, but even the loss so precious, each life well-lived and well-loved. Peace. Joy. Toshiro. He got sixty-six perfect years with Toshiro and all he could think about was how much he wished he had the first thirteen years, too.

His fingers would no longer straighten all the way, always slightly bent and always slightly sore, still callused because he refused to be a lazy old man. His fingertips traced the deep lines between white brows, impossible now to smooth out like he used to do when they were young. Always the thinker, the worrier. The other lines he traced were a little more surprising. Not carved like trenches through the still-smooth skin, not quite like his own, but they are there, the evidence of laughter in the crinkled corners of the closed eyes and the curves framing the lips that held his life's breath.

"I'm really pissed at you right now, you know. You were supposed to wait for me. Had to make me look like the idiot you always call me, showing up late. Ah, well, I'll be right behind you, as always. See you soon, love."

Relaxing, letting all the tension and potential sadness drain out of him, Ichigo laid down on his back again. Quietly, steadily, he released a content breath, drawing in the cold air slowly and more slowly still.

"Sing first sad going of friends that part; then sing glad meeting, and my Love's heart."

Scooting as close as possible, he lifted Toshiro's right hand in his left, twining fingers that held no warmth with his, and he gazed lovingly into the fathomless blue-green of Winter's sky.