author's note: A very metaphorical piece, so if metaphor shizzle isn't your thang, then don't bother reading this. I am describing Hitsugaya and Matsumoto's relationship the way I perceive it in my head. Honestly, I have no idea if anything of this shall make sense, but worth a shot.

Title: Wind and Flame
Genre: General
Rating: K
Couple: Implied HitsuMatsu

Snow is pure, a gentle art. It gracefully lands at the tip of his tongue, melts at his cool flesh. The blades worship his godly form, rising above his feet. Dance, dance, dance. Elegant, of dignified beauty, performing a pattern, a constant rhythm, of precise movement. His clothes are the victim, and each flake lands at his shoulders, trailing down his back, the robe meeting the glistening carpet. Yet the snow offers no mercy, clinging to his ankles, and he struggles against the weight, for his fragile, broken body is merely a vessel. Snow finds its King and carves the jewel.

Though he is a youthful King, at that. Cold, like his heart, he pretends to not acknowledge how the Devil cackles at him from below. Heavy is the head that wears the crown, but he does not surrender. It is clear the King is tempted, tormented by greed, by anger, by sorrow. Snow lands in his palms, the knife is presented, and he is power. The armoury shines, the flakes burn his body, create a merciless, yet fragile master.

And the chains tie around his wrists, and are pulled. The snow is no longer gentle; it is a fire, blazing and screaming. An inferno of desire, scratching at his cheeks, pulling at his robe, squeezing the crown, for it is like thorns, wrapped around his forehead, and his flesh bleeds. A frozen voice whispers, but he is silent, a sculpture of ice, of wind and snow. He is the storm, the glowing eye, but he struggles against the weight of the chains, for he is not so strong.

Footsteps. Soft, powerful, of wonder. A scolding hand reaches his bruised cheek, and the ice drips, melts, hides, flees. The hurricane surrenders, and the chains snap free. His crown topples, and he closes his eyes, gasping at her touch. Yet before the jewel crashes to the ground, she saves his dignity, saves his heart, and places the crown back where it should be. The robe is heavy at his shoulders, he can feel the snow cutting through his flesh, but she runs a hand over his wounds, the remedy. The cure.

… saves him from the tips of Hell.

The wind sings, whistles, grins. Mocks. Her eyes are bright, as clear as the sea. But like thunder, furious and untamed. The snow at his feet finds her, wraps around her ankles, but doesn't survive. Her warmth is a beast, growling and vicious. She is a goddess, herself, and his lungs release. The ice has squeezed his body, thwarted his soul, ate at his sanity. And yet she is the weapon, the shield, the sun, the moon, the earth.

A prince he is no more, for the knight has guarded his rule.