A/N: Happy Birthday Rangiku Matsumoto! To celebrate, I have spent the last two days in a mad dash to finish this story, which I started writing weeks ago. Not much to say about this idea… like most, it came to me while I was in the shower, and I fell in love with it immediately. It's really long, though. I'm sorry. But I sincerely hope that you all enjoy it as much as I do!
Disclaimer: I do not own Bleach, Tite Kubo does. I also do not own the song "World Apart", Asian Kung Fu Generation does. And if you haven't heard it, go listen to it. Right now.
World Apart
By: Princess Kitty1
"Me wo fusai de (Closed my eyes)
Boku wa kimi wo omoi egai te (and pictured you)
Sozou no sekai de kimi mo zenbu nakushite (Erased you and everything from my imaginary world)
Wakatta yo (and finally understood)"
The city was positively sweltering; obviously it had missed the memo that September was upon them, and by all accounts it should have been getting colder. The silver haired twenty-something-year-old had to raise his hand up to catch the droplets of melted ice cream slithering between his fingers, ignoring the stares from passerby. His albinism, coupled with the fact that he was Japanese and these silly Americans were still nervous after the recent bombing of Pearl Harbor – boy, that had been a wonderful time in his life – made him somewhat of a spectacle every time he walked down the street. But one would think that in a place like Los Angeles these fears would have already been put to bed. After all, this city was crawling with immigrants.
Not that he'd entered the country recently. No, his parents had been the seafarers, crossing the Pacific and finding love in the Promised Land. That had been before the Depression struck, before he'd been born into their impoverished home and gradually watched those hard working parents of his succumb to disease and starvation. Whether consciously or not, as he had been quite young, Gin Ichimaru had made a decision that day: If he was going to die like them, he would like to see the sights first.
But that had been ages ago; a troubled time so far away that sometimes, he was content to pretend that it had all been some miserable dream. And with this new, budding success of his, he could have gone right on living as if it had been just that: a nightmare chased away by the morning's first light.
Unfortunately, he was not allowed to do so. For no matter where he went, he was pursued by a phantom, a specter from his past. To say that he was constantly reminded of those days would be no understatement; to make like that phantom wasn't everywhere would be a denial of its existence. Even now, as he took a leisurely stroll and ignored the guarded looks from the surrounding citizens – really, you would think they had never seen an albino person before – his narrowed eyes were drawn to a window display of black and white televisions stacked precariously on top of one another.
And he saw his phantom on the screen, a star shining in the brightness of noon: the long, wavy hair that he knew by memory to be strawberry blond; the confident smile that had replaced the timidity of those Depression days; those expressive eyes; the beauty mark at the corner of her full lips.
Every time he saw her, he felt a blow to his stomach that left him short of breath. His ice cream forgotten and melting over his hand, he stared at the black and white picture, despairing at the fact that he could no longer simply avoid her picture on the covers of magazines. No, with this technological leap he could see her moving, breathing, speaking, as if she were right in front of him. And that ice cream covered hand twitched with the sudden longing to reach out and touch her, though he knew his fingers would not meet with her soft cheek, but rather the crackling static clinging to the television screen.
He couldn't deny that he had read the articles, skimmed over the gossip that Hollywood generated faster than its own films. And he had found himself shaking his head at some of the things they had written – oh! If only they knew; the way her nose wrinkled in such a cute manner before she sneezed; how insecure she had been; her inability to look one in the face when she was telling a lie; the second beauty mark on her left shoulder and the third on her dainty ankle.
It had been so many years since the day he had left her without warning, without apology, yet Gin was absolutely certain that no one in that war-worried country, in that power-obsessed world, knew that woman better than he did.
…
Gin couldn't remember when his birthday was, but he was fairly certain that he had recently turned nine years old. It was cold in this part of the country, he noted, and he would have gotten up to close the door of the moving train car had he not sensed the locomotive slowing down as it approached a station. Doing anything now would be far too conspicuous, so he drew the only blanket in his possession tighter around his small frame and rubbed his hands together. There would be little chance of him getting sleep tonight, for he still wasn't used to the bumps and sudden turns taken by the lumbering machine as it charged through the American wilderness.
Today, he guessed, they were stopping in Chicago, a place he had yet to visit. He'd overheard something like that before he had snuck on board, so it was the only thing he could assume. It had been a long day, and his stomach growled incessantly. He would have to set about this new city on foot to make some money the only way he could: through magic tricks.
His silver hair and unwavering smile added to the mystery of his act. He could enchant a fairly big audience simply by hitting a coin into his sleeve and making it appear to have vanished. Children his age were especially amused by this, but it was nice to see their wealthy parents scratching their heads over such a simple illusion, whispering to themselves in awe when it was all said and done. He'd collect his money, buy some food – and perhaps a thicker blanket – and run back to the train station before it set off with his few possessions.
Chicago was in no better shape than the rest of the country; the homeless lined up for soup kitchens and overnight shelters, their numbers greatly increased by the struggling stock market. Gin was too young at the time to understand most of the worried conversations he picked up on as he tried to make himself as inconspicuous as possible. He just needed to find the better-off families and strike up a good show, then satisfy the monster roaring in his stomach.
It didn't take long. He set up shop on the corner of a busy street and forced his mouth to stretch as far as it could go; nobody wanted to see magic tricks done by some sorry-looking urchin. If he smiled, they smiled. It was as simple as that.
"Come one, come all! Feast your eyes and be amazed! For on this very day you will be a witness to the mysticism of the age, a deep magic received by a gifted few upon birth!" Gin didn't understand what half of this meant, but he had heard it on a radio show and committed it to memory. At least it drew a crowd. He got to work performing his routine, bowing politely when he received applause, thanking those generous enough to throw a few coins his way. It wasn't much, but enough for a loaf of bread and a block of cheese at the very least, which was more than he could say for the other children his age who sat and wandered aimlessly among the throngs.
By nightfall, Gin had contented his stomach with a few bites of food, the rest of which he decided he would keep for the coming days of travel. He got slightly lost on his way back to the train station, but all he really needed to do was follow the tracks into the heart of the city and soon found his way again. With bread and cheese clutched tightly against his chest, he hurriedly crossed into the yard unseen, darting between idle locomotives and spotting the one he had arrived on a short distance away. He looked to his left, his right, then ran toward the open car and placed his parcels inside before hoisting himself onto it with some effort. He couldn't wait to get taller; it would make this business a lot easier.
A scratching sound made him pause. In the sliver of moonlight shining into the cart, he could have sworn he saw something withdraw into the darkness. Gin stood frozen, silhouetted against the night, and steeled his nerves before taking a cautious step forward. "Is someone there?" he asked quietly. Maybe it was a stray dog that had leaped onto the train and wandered into his things. He certainly hoped that it wasn't a conductor waiting for him to get close enough so he could spring out and catch him.
There came no reply from whatever lurked in the shadows. Gin moved closer, leaving his bread and cheese behind. He opened his eyes a little wider, hoping to have them adjust to the minimal lighting in the closed space, and this time he was certain he saw movement. But not just that; he had also heard a quiet, distinctly feminine whimper. And sure enough, as he leaned forward, he made out the shape of a small body huddled beneath his blanket, two wide and frightened eyes peering up at him with unshed tears hanging onto long lashes. It was a girl, probably no older than him, with short and wavy hair that stuck up in several places. Gin came even closer to her, which caused her to withdraw further into the dark corner. She was trembling, either from the cold or fear or a mixture of both.
"Hey, don't worry," he found himself saying, summoning the smile he used to enchant his audiences, "I won't hurt ya."
The girl did not seem to believe him. She recoiled and, squeezing her eyes shut, opened her mouth and began to apologize. "I'm sorry! I didn't know this cart was taken! Please, don't turn me in to the conductor! I don't have anywhere else to go! Please…" And she began to weep, her thin shoulders heaving as tears streamed down her cheeks.
Gin flinched, unsure of what to do. He had never liked seeing girls cry; it reminded him too much of his mother in the final days of her life, when the despair had made her so sick that she couldn't even get out of bed. But he didn't want to get caught, either. "Shh!" He put a finger to his lips. "I'm not gonna turn ya in. If they catch you, they catch me too. But you have to be quiet, okay? At least until we get out of here."
The girl hiccupped and nodded her affirmation. Gin ran and grabbed his food, then came back into the dark corner of the train car, sitting down next to the girl. "Here," he offered her the loaf of bread, "are you hungry?" She searched his face for any sign of deception, but his smile was firmly in place, so she reached a skinny arm from within the confines of the warm blanket and tore off a chunk of the loaf, nibbling on it as tears continued to pour from her wide, sad eyes. Gin waited until she had consumed a decent amount before ripping off a hunk of cheese and passing it to her. "What's your name?" he asked, pointing to himself. "I'm Gin."
The girl swallowed past the lump in her throat, sniffling a bit. He hadn't expected this moment to be a memorable one, but at that moment, his eyes took a snapshot for his brain to keep, one that would stay with him for the many years to come: the girl with her large, ice blue eyes, tears running down her cheeks and snot across her full lips, her body wrapped up in the only blanket he owned. "My name is…"
…
"Rangiku Matsumoto." Gin looked up as a large magazine hit the table with a smack, causing the more half-asleep of the group to jump awake. Next to him, his best friend Kira Izuru recovered from the shock, then stifled a yawn and rubbed his eyes. Across the table, Shuuhei Hisagi eyed the busty woman on the magazine cover appreciatively. And standing at the head of them, a cigar clenched between his teeth, was Kisuke Urahara, the editor in chief of Swing magazine. "Gentlemen, we are a lucky brood," he continued, walking slowly around the table. "For this week, we will be interviewing Hollywood's It Girl – the woman that every elementary school gal wants to be, every housewife envies, and every man desires."
"Yourself included, boss?" Kira muttered tiredly.
Kisuke chuckled. "Please, this is a professional environment. If you would like to hear my thoughts on the lovely lady, you'll have to take me out for a beer."
Gin said nothing, staring at the magazine cover. She was in one of those flirty poses, where she would bat her lashes at the photographer and make him go weak in the knees. Her outfit was modest, yet decadent. I'm seated on the lap of luxury but I'm not going to flaunt it… that much. He was so engrossed in the photo that he only caught the tail end of what Kisuke said next, and only then because his name had been mentioned. "What?"
"I said, can I count on you to conduct the interview, as you are the only one in this room whose tongue is not hanging out of his mouth?" Kisuke asked, and all eyes turned upon him.
Gin prided himself on being the most opportunistic of the group. He was good at what he did; the winning smile that he had perfected throughout his childhood of travel made him ideal for interviews. It relaxed the celebrities, politicians, or whoever happened to be sitting before the tape recorder. As such, it was no secret that he was on his way to a promotion, which was mighty impressive for someone who had only recently been hired out of a group of interns, and after so many years of poverty he would do anything to reach the top.
But not this. As Gin stared at the magazine cover, his eyes tracing the familiar shape of the woman's face for what could have been the billionth time in his life, the determination that had driven him for so long fled into the shadows with its tail tucked between its legs. He leaned back, clasping his hands behind his head and put on his trademark grin. "Nah, I'll have to pass."
Kisuke took a puff of his cigar, pushing back his hat to scratch at his shaggy blond hair. "Are you sure?"
"Yup." Gin waved his hand dismissively. "Kira can handle it."
"No way are you going to push this off on me!" Kira yelled, having finally come to life enough to slam his palms on the table. "I mean, not that I wouldn't mind. She's Rangiku Matsumoto, for God's sake," he said with a sheepish laugh.
Gin tore his eyes away from the magazine cover, staring out at the sunny Los Angeles afternoon. As if he, of all people, needed to be told who she was.
The day came and went as it often did: he conducted interviews and wrote up articles on his typewriter, but his distraction caused him to slip up and have to start entire pages over. It was such a hassle. Why couldn't anyone invent some kind of typewriter that allowed for the correcting of mistakes? He rubbed his sore wrists and popped his knuckles frequently. At this rate, he was going to develop arthritis before his thirtieth birthday.
After work, he went over to Kira's and played poker with him, Shuuhei, and their friend Shinji, who wrote for the local newspaper and was the only person in the world whose poker face could possibly rival Gin's. But once again, he was distracted, and ended up losing the game, along with a good fifty dollars. "Hot damn. I'll get it all back next week, Shinji."
The blond man grinned as he collected his winnings. "That's what you said last week."
"You've had your head in the clouds for some time now," Shuuhei noted, sourly forking over his money. "And giving up the Matsumoto interview? You feeling alright?"
"You gave up an interview with Rangiku Matsumoto?" Shinji's eyes widened in disbelief, his hands hovering over the money just long enough for Kira to sneakily take back one of his two-dollar bills. "Who are you and what have you done with Gin?"
"Calm down, I'm fine," Gin drawled, though he was anything but. As he walked home under the evening streetlamps, his accelerated heartbeat making his stomach shift uncomfortably, all he could think about was her. She was going to be there, in his workplace, in the very same building as him for the first time in over ten years. They would be breathing the same stale air, walking the same tight corridors, yet they might as well have been worlds apart.
…
Rangiku Matsumoto was originally from Georgia, but her family had recently moved to Illinois to be closer to relatives struck particularly hard by the Depression. They lived in a rural town about forty miles away; one of those places, Rangiku told Gin, where life revolved around the church. She was used to it. Her parents had always been the religious types, and she, too, had firmly adopted the belief that Jesus loved her. They may have been struggling, but they were happy. They had their faith to guide them.
As she told him this, she absently fingered the cross pendant on the silver chain that she wore around her neck. Everything had been fine, she said, in that little town that was led more by Sousuke Aizen, the pastor of its only church, than the mayor himself. The pastor was a close friend of her father's, and as such he was often over at their house for dinner.
It wasn't bad, she said with fresh tears in her eyes, until Pastor Aizen had forced himself on her.
Of course she'd been too small and helpless to fight back. And of course nobody believed her when she'd told them. How dare she accuse the good pastor of such a thing? How dare she slander the name of a respectable, Godly man? She was scolded, ridiculed, called a liar and dismissed without so much as an investigation. And that awful man had been allowed to go free, to lead an impressionable flock.
It was a very unfortunate story, and Gin remained appropriately solemn as the train upon which they rode chugged towards the east coast. "Don't worry," he reassured her when she was finished crying, "I believe you." How could he not? The proof was there on her body in the form of several healing bruises that her parents had blindly declared to have been caused by roughhousing with other children. And because she was still in such a state, he allowed her to keep the blanket, even though winter was drawing near and the days were getting colder. He reckoned that she needed it much more than he did.
Now, Gin had never planned on incorporating Rangiku into his travelling magician act. But she'd refused to stay behind when they had arrived in New York City, so he had been left with little choice but to bring her along. It was then that he'd discovered that the girl could sing. When his first performance had yielded little profit, Rangiku had stood on an empty crate, opened her mouth, and sang a sweet hymn that stirred tears of hope and generosity from the passerby. That afternoon, they had returned to the train with enough bread, cheese, and milk for a feast.
Clinking their bottles together as a toast to their success, Gin and Rangiku had eaten until they could hardly move. And when he'd reclined on the new pillow he'd purchased alongside the food, she had cuddled up right next to him, draping his blanket over both of their bodies. To this day, he could remember clearly the brightness of the moon that night, the twinkling stars, and how warm he had been with his nose buried in her short hair, her head tucked beside his heart.
…
"Cut! That's a wrap, ladies and gentlemen! Well done!" A smattering of applause struck up on the set of the upcoming film Red Dawn, where Rangiku Matsumoto, clad in a long fur coat and knee-high boots, breathed a sigh of relief. Another one down, she thought, wiping a bead of sweat descending from the edge of her hairline. The movie may have taken place in winter, but it was still unusually hot outside, especially for the middle of September. Shouldn't things have been cooling down by now? At this rate she'd be having a pool party on her birthday. Shedding the coat, she smiled and flushed with embarrassment as the middle-aged director approached her, practically dancing on his feet. "Rangiku, sweetheart, that was amazing! Filming two motion pictures successively without even a drop in your performance! How do you do it?" he cried, taking her hand and kissing it.
"You give me far too much credit," Rangiku laughed, pushing her perfectly styled strawberry blond hair from her makeup caked face. Goodness, it was way too hot for all of this foundation.
"Nonsense! You know I only give credit where credit is due." The director clasped her hand firmly. "I cannot wait to see how The Beautiful Lie came out at the premiere next weekend. All the rumors I heard about your haunting portrayal of the jilted protagonist…"
"They're just rumors." Rangiku winked at him. "I'm no different than anybody else." Though as she said this, a haze settled over her sky blue eyes, which drifted over the kind faces of her fellow actors, the cameramen, the director, the make-up artists, the lights and cameras and intricately designed set. No, she was much different from them. She hadn't been born into this artificial sky. Once upon a time, she had dwelled on the earth below, a commoner, and then even less than that. She had walked, not flown. The only people who had paid her any attention were those kind enough to donate to her survival, or police trying to catch her and throw her into an orphanage. She had gazed upon the stars above and desperately wished to join them, but now that she had…
She closed her eyes on them, imagining for a moment that she were standing on steady ground again… only it wasn't. Her body swayed from side to side, following the jerking motion of the train tracks clattering underfoot…
Her eyes snapped open quickly and she shook her head free of those distant memories. Lately she had found herself plagued by them more frequently. Perhaps it was because, after drawing inspiration from what little snippets she had fed the media of her past life, the director of The Beautiful Lie had sought to emulate it. He'd come to her, practically on his knees, begging for her to play the lead in some hollow recreation of those far off days.
She could have told him no. She could have apologized, put on her painstakingly rehearsed, red-carpet smile and said that it was flattering, but she would have to decline. She could have admitted that she didn't want to put her heart through the misery of gazing up into the eyes of her handsome co-star, caressing his cheek, whispering words of love and devotion that she didn't mean, couldn't mean when it wasn't the grinning, silver-haired boy of her youth that she was speaking to.
But she had to. She knew this. She would never say it out loud, not even to her own reflection. The reason that she had taken on that role, had put on the performance of a lifetime and dragged her own heart through the mud in the process… the childish dream that she could never hope to achieve, but would never let go of…
"Ms. Matsumoto, your driver is here," a security guard told her, startling her out of the haze.
"Oh, thank you." She smiled at him kindly and went to put up the fur coat. Her feet dragged as she made her way off of the set, to the dressing rooms down a narrow hall, pausing to stare at the golden star plastered to the door.
Rangiku Matsumoto. She was one of them now, ascended to the heavens above. Her time on Earth had been short, yet beautiful. And she warred with herself every day, caught between the desire to forget it entirely to ease her troubled mind, and wanting to embrace those precious moments with every fiber of her being. Because if she could just be honest, if she could only stop running, she would realize what her subconscious had been trying to tell her for all of these years: that in order to make her childish dream come true, she would wish upon herself, the closest star she knew.
It was up to her, up to that film, to bring him back.
…
Sometimes, during their travels across the American frontier, the trains would go through tunnels, and there Gin and Rangiku would take in simultaneous deep breaths and hold them for as long as they could. One of two things were always sure to happen: either the tunnel would be too long and they would both give out before reaching the end, or they would triumphantly exhale once the sun broke through the darkness, then smile victoriously at one another. It was no competition; Gin had told her in their first weeks together that if one made a wish and held their breath throughout the length of a tunnel, it would come true. Often times they would both agree on what to wish for – like food, or new clothes, for example – before the tunnel came. But most of the time they focused on making their own wishes, facing away from each other to keep from laughing at their puffed out cheeks and reddening faces.
"What sort of things do you wish for, Gin?" Rangiku had asked him one day as they sat having lunch between two wooden crates.
"Me?" He'd looked up at the roof of the cart, chewing thoughtfully. "I wish that food didn't spoil so we could get more than bread every time we go into town." His lips pulled down into a morose frown. Then he'd brightened instantly, gazing at her with his narrowed eyes, which she'd sworn changed color depending on his mood. "How about you, Ran?"
Rangiku hugged her knees to her chest, a soft smile on her face. "Well, I've always wanted to be an actress," she said, and then blushed, realizing that she had never told anyone that before. "I mean, I know it's impossible. You have to, like, be born in California to get that kind of job."Her brows knitted together, her bottom lip sticking out in frustration. "But that's okay. I wish for other things, too."
"Like what?"
"Like," she turned her head to look at him, "having a big ol' house in the countryside, with a dog and a cat and maybe one of those pretty, colorful birds… and lots of land for the dog to run around on, too. It'd be a huge house, and it'd be just for you and me. No more wandering, no more having to steal and beg, no more being chased. We'd have more money than we knew what to do with."
Gin's smile widened. "Really?" He laughed out loud. "That's funny, I've wished for that once or twice, too. But you don't have to worry about that stuff, Ran. It's a man's job to buy the house and pets, so you leave all of it to me!"
Rangiku's cheeks had grown exceptionally warm at the sound of that. He didn't mind sharing a big house with her? Like married people did? She buried her face in her knees, unable to suppress the giggles bubbling up in her throat. She may have been too young to understand the complexities of love and marriage, but she did know that both were everlasting commitments. Moving the food out of the way, she had scooted closer to Gin and placed her head on his shoulder, sighing contentedly. Spending the rest of her life with him… that didn't sound too bad at all.
…
"What will you be doing, then?" It was a clear Saturday afternoon, and on such days Gin and Kira had made it a habit to go out and get dinner at their favorite diner, a place located halfway between both of their apartments so neither had to travel farther than the other. Lazy minds thought alike, he supposed. They even claimed a regular booth, and the waitresses now knew them both by name. Gin stirred sugar into his coffee, his cheek cradled in his open palm.
"Work is work," he answered, glancing over the menu, "so I'll be there." They were two days from the Rangiku Matsumoto interview, which had turned their already hectic workplace into a circus as of late. The women gossiped frantically over whether or not they should ask Rangiku for an autograph – would she be insulted? – for their young daughters, who loved to see her in the pictures. The men, on the other hand, alternated between sighing dreamily and leering at the photograph of her that had been stapled to the wall next to the conference room to remind them that they would be having "royalty" among them. Everyone had been warned to be on their best behavior. After all, while Swing magazine was fairly well known, it could always benefit from more good publicity.
This was predicted to be their biggest issue of the year. Gin could understand why Kira kept sending him nervous and worried looks. The poor guy was under a lot of pressure; pressure that someone like Gin could handle easily, but had for whatever reason refused to take on. It was very uncharacteristic of him. And, as if their thoughts had been in tune, Kira opened his mouth to ask.
"So… why did you really pass up the interview?"
Gin grinned. "This again? You guys just won't give up, will ya?" He reclined in the booth, his back sinking into the squeaking cushions, and crossed his arms over his chest. "Who put you up to it? Mr. Urahara?"
Kira flushed and looked down at the table, dragging his finger through the circle of moisture left behind by his sweating glass of lemonade. "Can you see where we're coming from, Gin? You've never once turned down an interview for anything. You're the most opportunistic bastard in the business."
"I am, aren't I?" Gin picked up his coffee mug and took a sip.
"And all of the sudden you refuse a once in a lifetime chance to sit across the table with the Rangiku Matsumoto? You can't say that such things are beneath you. She's the biggest star in Hollywood, and you," Kira frowned, "you've written articles on everything from the Japanese internment camps to home remedies for the chicken pox."
"Do you find it that hard to believe," Gin stared at him, "that I wanted to do something nice for you?" The straightforwardness of his tone and the irritation in his features silenced the blond man seated across from him. "C'mon, Kira. We're friends, right?" He placed the mug back on the table and directed his attention out the window. "If I didn't think you were well equipped for this job, I wouldn't have passed it on to you." The sun was setting outside, evening summoning the club crowd from their daily duties. Gin would have gone out and joined them, but he had never been much of a dancer. Anything would have been better than sitting under everyone's scrutiny. "Besides, wasn't it you who told me to never look a gift horse in the mouth?"
Kira smiled wryly. "I guess." But he still couldn't help feeling that not all was right with the albino journalist. Gin may have had an excellent poker face, but it was the way he had been zoning out for days, the way he carried himself so differently, the fact that he had ordered coffee rather than ginger ale that gave him away. Something was definitely bothering him. And Kira, being his best friend, knew that if even he wasn't allowed to know what it was, then perhaps he should leave the situation alone. So he decided to switch gears. "Ms. Matsumoto is single, right? What sort of man do you think she's interested in?"
Gin had never given that much thought. Had this been fifteen years ago, he wouldn't have been able to picture her without somebody at her side, she had been so dependent. But now, with her confident smile, her strong posture, her charismatic mannerisms… She was a celebrity, so she was probably prettying herself up for other celebrities – maybe even her co-star in that Beautiful Lie movie. "Not a lowly journalist, that's for sure."
"Oh, you're right. Who am I kidding?" Kira said mournfully, shaking his head. "At this rate I'm never going to get married. I'll die by my lonesome in my apartment with the television on. You know, when I can actually afford a television."
Gin spent the better part of an hour trying to convince Kira that he'd find himself a nice girl someday, that he should worry more about his career as a journalist and the rest would fall into place soon after. But once they had parted ways for the night, he felt a little worse than he had before leaving the house that day. He had always known that one morning, upon sifting through the competition before heading off to work, he would find the tabloids buzzing with the news that Rangiku was engaged to some A-list actor who she had met and fallen in love with on location while shooting a film in Paris. Their wedding would be a huge affair, with all the paparazzi they could cram into the church. And the bells would ring from the top of the steeple as she emerged with a new last name, teary-eyed and waving to the people who dwelled on the planet below that unreachable sky, with man who could never appreciate her, never love her even a fraction of the amount that Gin did.
By the time he reached his one-bedroom apartment, the dark living room greeting him with its emptiness, he was thoroughly depressed. He sighed heavily, tossed his wallet and keys lightly onto the coffee table, then went to turn the television on, fiddling with the dial until a channel came in clearly enough to be seen. There was never anything interesting to watch; he simply found the background noise comforting. Flopping down onto the couch, Gin ran a hand through his hair, staring up at the ceiling.
He was tired, the big meal he had consumed sitting comfortably in his gut. He should have gone to bed, but he found himself lacking the energy to move, his eyelids pressing together more insistently. And it was strange, but he thought he heard the sound of a train chugging along in the distance. Soon it had drowned out the voices on the television as it came closer, and before he knew it, the sound had surrounded him completely. He could feel the bump in the tracks, the way his body swayed unsteadily on his feet. He could smell the coal burning, see the stripes of moonlight filtering in from the open door, illuminating the form of the short-haired girl who sat cross-legged in the middle of the car, singing the sweetest of hymns.
And in that moment, he remembered with sudden clarity, she had seemed to shine before his very eyes, like a star that had fallen from the heavens above.
…
"Happy birthday, Gin!" Rangiku greeted him excitedly once he was fully awake and ready to face the day. She was older now, he noted, having observed the subtle changes her body had been undergoing in the last two years. Her hair was longer, falling about her shoulders but still wavy and untamed. She seemed to be getting more womanly as well; her chest had filled out a bit, and her hips had widened, giving her the beginnings of a rather shapely figure. Gin rubbed his eyes and smiled at her.
"Happy birthday, Ran." He had grown, too, though not nearly as much. His ears were starting to fit his head better, and he'd gained maybe an inch or two in height. He was going to be dwarfed if she got any taller. They were currently on equal eye-level.
Gin knew that he should have been happier, but lately, a series of doubts had been creeping into his mind. It had started when Rangiku had told him about her dream to be an actress. Something had bothered him about the way she had so casually discarded her ambition, particularly when, with a little effort, he knew that she could have seen it to fruition. Then, a few weeks ago, she had been practicing her curtsies and pleasantries, claiming that as a young lady she should always be mindful of these things. When Gin had suggested that she should find a tutor – he couldn't teach her much about being a lady – she had asked why for. "All of that stuff is just for impressing strangers," she'd told him, "and the only person I ever need to worry about impressing is you." Those words had shaken something deep inside of him, something that he was slowly beginning to see more clearly.
The train had stopped in Texas that morning, a place that Gin had been to once or twice, so he knew the area well. Doubts or not, this was definitely working in his favor. Since he hadn't been able to remember his birthday, Rangiku had decided that he could share hers; that way, neither of them would ever forget it. And because it was their birthday, and they were in a place that Gin could find his way around, he had decided on exactly where he would take her to celebrate.
First of all, they exchanged gifts, shyly presenting each other with their respective bundles. Trying to keep them hidden from each other had been a challenge, considering the fact that they slept in the same cart and could easily sneak back to take a peek during the day. But the good thing about Rangiku was that she trusted him not to look, and he trusted her in kind. "Let's open them both at the same time!" She insisted, staring at the plainly wrapped parcel in her lap with the same excitement that one would find in a dog with a treat on its nose. Gin nodded and grabbed hold of the string keeping the brown paper around his gift.
"Count of three: One… two… three!" On cue, they tore at the packages with youthful abandon and, after a moment of silence, they both began to laugh. "Looks like great minds think alike!" Gin held up the black scarf that she had given him while she fingered the soft pink fabric of the neckerchief he had bought for her.
"It's beautiful!" Rangiku cried, slinging it onto her shoulder and crawling towards him. "Here! Help me put it on!" She handed him the neckerchief and turned around, moving her lengthening hair away from her skin. Gin reached forward and slipped the pink cloth past her shoulder, then grasped the end with his other hand and pulled it gently upwards until it rested lightly against her neck. He tied a loose knot on the side, making sure it wouldn't choke her. Rangiku glanced at him over her shoulder. "How do I look?"
Gin answered honestly. "Beautiful, Ran." She responded with a giggle, then turned back and took the black scarf from his lap.
"Now neither of us will be cold when the winter comes," she said as she looped it around his neck and tucked it neatly. Satisfied, she leaned back on her palms. "So where are we going? We should do something fun with the money we make!"
"We're not working today," Gin said with a firm shake of his head, and before she could ask why he added, "Because it's our birthday. We're taking a well-deserved break and spending our time together."He had actually been planning this for quite a while. Ever since spring – April, maybe – he'd taken a little bit of his earnings every day and stashed them in a separate location in preparation for this occasion. He'd wanted his and Rangiku's twelfth birthdays to be the best, one that she would treasure for the rest of her life. The pink neckerchief was only the beginning.
Once they found a good opportunity to sneak away from the train, they ventured into the city of San Antonio with the feeling that, for once, they wouldn't be treated like criminals. They explored many gift shops and clothing stores, Rangiku wishing that they didn't have to live such a nomadic lifestyle so that she could buy a bunch of clothes. She instead settled for a new pair of earrings and a pretty silver chain for her cross pendant that, once she had set her sights on, Gin immediately purchased for her. They joined a tour of the Alamo and stood solemnly before the names of the men who had given their lives fighting for it. Then they had hot dogs loaded with mustard and relish for lunch, after which they went to a movie theater and watched two or three films in a row, Rangiku wide-eyed and swooning over the actors the entire time.
By the time that was over, the sun had just about set. Not yet hungry, they noticed a horse-drawn carriage strung up with white lights parked on the side of the road. Gin paid for them to be taken all over the downtown area, and together they laughed and counted how many Fords they came across. Once that was over, they wandered past a dance hall where Rangiku paused to look inside. One of the windows was open, letting the music from within drift out into the alley. Gin came back and looked as well. There were several pairs of men and women, twirling about the brightly lit room in time to a classic waltz while an instructor went around helping them improve their posture. Rangiku pulled away from the window with a mischievous gleam in her eye. "Dance with me, Gin!" she cried.
"What?" His eyes widened to the point that they were actually discernable through his lids. "I don't know how," he protested, holding up his hands.
"So? Neither do I! Well… I know a little bit from when my parents taught me. But look at those people! They're learning and they seem to be getting along just fine," Rangiku insisted with a dramatic pout. She took a few more seconds to observe, then grabbed his arm and tugged him towards her. "Come on! It doesn't look hard at all. You just have to put one hand here," she placed his hand on her waist, "and then hold this one."
Gin felt his cheeks warming a bit as he held her close and, after watching the pairs in the building a while longer, he clumsily moved forward. Rangiku followed his steps, and soon they were waltzing beneath the glow from the window that shined down on them like a spotlight on their own private stage. They went slowly at first, until they had both gotten their footing, and then they picked up their pace to keep time with the music. Rangiku smiled at him warmly. "And you said you didn't know how."
Gin returned her smile, and then moved his hand until her fingers slipped between his slightly longer ones, her palm cradled against his. Rangiku's eyes widened a bit, and then she ducked her head, embarrassed. Gin sighed. He wished that they could dance like this for the rest of eternity, never tiring or getting dizzy or hungry. He wished that the rest of the world and its problems would melt away, leaving nothing but the two of them together with the light and the music, forever and ever. But the song came to an end eventually, and with nothing left to dance to, they reluctantly separated. However, Gin refused to let go of her hand. He held onto it as they continued their walk down the street, and she neither complained nor tried to take it back.
For dinner, he brought her to a nice, quiet restaurant where the napkins were made of cloth and meant to be worn across the lap. He treated her to a delicious steak, something that Rangiku hadn't eaten since running away from home. And it was silly, but the taste of it had made tears well up in her eyes. "I-I'm sorry," she said to him, laughing lightly. "I guess sometimes I miss these things more than I realize."
And just like that, the magic was broken. The lurking doubt hit Gin like a blow to the head. He stared at Rangiku from across the table, watching the glistening moisture on her fingertips disappear as she wiped them on her napkin. He gazed upon her sad, smiling face and in that instant he knew why they couldn't keep dancing forever.
For years, he had kept her selfishly by his side. He'd forced this Jesus-loving, church-going girl to lie and cheat and steal in order to survive. She had developed a dependence on him. Throwing away her dreams of being an actress, of having a life that she truly deserved, was not something that she should have been able to do easily. Not for him. Not for anyone. No, Rangiku should have been among the sort of people who could afford to eat at restaurants like this daily. He'd seen it crystal clearly the night he had woken up to find her singing to the moon.
This life was not for her. It never had been. She would not benefit in any way from being with him when she belonged with the celestial bodies in the limitless sky above.
…
The day of the interview came much faster than Gin had wanted it to. That morning, he had sluggishly dragged himself out of bed, showered, shaved, dressed, eaten breakfast, brushed his teeth… and then he'd spent ten minutes staring at himself in the mirror, having a very intense mental battle. He had to go to work. He didn't want to go to work. For the first time in twelve years, he would be in the same building as Rangiku. She would be sitting, living, blinking, and breathing just a few doors down from his office. But with a wavering resolve, he told himself that it would be no big deal, and that was that.
The weather had finally taken notice of everyone's calendars. As soon as Gin stepped out of the apartment building he wished he had taken a jacket with him. But it wouldn't be this way for long; these were those awkward weeks when the lows would dip into the fifties and the highs would soar to the eighties. In other words, it was cold and flu season. As if Gin didn't have enough to worry about. Now he was casting paranoid glances at the people around him, wary of red eyes and running noses.
He caught his reflection in a store window while he waited for the streetlight to change so he could cross and almost laughed out loud. Unconsciously, he had dressed to impress: a suit jacket, a tie, his favorite fedora and shoes made to look nice rather than support the foot. How pathetic. At the end of the day, his toes would be aching and he'd have nothing to show for it.
The building in which Swing's offices were located did not seem out of the ordinary, save for Kenpachi the security guard, who had been posted by the entrance to frighten away any curious onlookers. Gin nodded at the enormous man as he pulled the door open, and Kenpachi nodded back with a grunt. His mission was obvious: protect Ms. Matsumoto the moment she arrived. Was anybody even aware of the fact that she was supposed to be there today? Surely the paparazzi would start stalking her the second she left her home, but Kisuke was good about keeping things hush-hush. Other magazine editors envied his ability to carry his interviews in relative secrecy.
"Good morning, Gin!" Speak of the devil… "I didn't think you would be showing up today." Mr. Urahara came down the hall with his long-time girlfriend – an educated woman named Yoruichi Shihoin, who Kisuke told them believed that she was too smart for marriage – on his arm.
Gin laughed. "I've got a few articles to work on, Sir, though you may be right." And with this he feigned a cough into the crook of his elbow. "I'm feeling a bit under the weather. Changing temperatures and all that."
"Of course," Kisuke patted him on the back. "Well, be sure to look alive! Ms. Matsumoto will be here in an hour. We were lucky that she could fit us into her schedule, what with all the movie promotions going on and such." He walked past, whispering something in Yoruichi's ear that had her scowling at him with displeasure. Gin shook his head and continued into his office. They'd probably been having an early romp upstairs. It was no secret that Mr. Urahara and his girlfriend got away with some pretty indecent behavior behind closed doors. Thank goodness he'd missed it.
It almost could have passed off as an ordinary work day. Gin sat at his typewriter, punching down the keys as he squinted at his notes. Occasionally he would hear someone outside rush to the other end of the hall, whispering excitedly. He became distracted, looking up at the clock hanging on the wall opposite his desk as it counted down the minutes. An hour, huh? Then she was scheduled for an interview at ten, which meant that she would be there a bit earlier. She would come in, ushered through the front door by Kenpachi, dressed in name-brand fashion labels and decadent jewelry. Her high heels would sound noisily as she walked to where Kisuke would be waiting to greet her, and together they would go up the stairs. His coworkers would scramble back to their places, pretending to look busy as the two passed, and soon she would be handed off to Kira, who would nervously escort her into the interview room just two doors down from where Gin currently sat.
And he would stay put, waving off his fellow journalists when they came and asked him if he'd seen her yet. He didn't need to see her. He could recall every detail of her face without so much as glancing at a picture.
Nine-twenty. Gin ripped a page out of the typewriter and started over. Nine-thirty-two. He contemplated going to get something to eat from a nearby café, having only been able to consume a small portion for breakfast thanks to his nervous stomach. Nine-thirty-eight. He decided against leaving; there was still too much work to be done, though if he could just concentrate he'd have it finished in less than three hours. Nine-forty-three. There really was no reason to be at work today. He could have done all this at home… no, he didn't have a typewriter at home.
Nine-forty-seven. "She's here!" a voice squealed from the hallway.
Gin's fingers froze over the typewriter. He stared at the page, trying to remember what he was supposed to be writing about. President Eisenhower? Something like that. He sat back in his chair, listening to the commotion outside. Running footsteps, shadows flitting past the door, women whispering in awe and admiration, men muttering and chuckling to each other. And then came the inevitable, "Shh, here they come!" followed by more running footsteps and the silence of so-called productivity.
"Right this way, Ms. Matsumoto."
"Thank you, Mr. Urahara."
Oh God, her voice… it had deepened, become more husky and womanly. Gin closed his eyes, taking in a deep breath and letting it out in a profound, shuddering sigh. He'd heard that voice so many times in the last few years, but it had been produced by a series of crossed wires, not her own vocal chords; drifting past a crackling speaker, not her full, pink lips. The artificial should not have been that different from the real thing.
Down the hall, the door to the interview room clicked shut, and the illusion of work dissipated immediately. Gin heard the scraping of chairs, the clatter of men and women abandoning their desks in a rush, the scurrying heel-clacks and footfalls. All of the energy on the floor seemed to converge on that room just a short distance from where he sat, feeling dizzy. Maybe he was sick. His throat had become dry, and he was one sudden move away from vomiting into his wastebasket. His skin was clammy despite the cool interior of his office.
He couldn't do this. Her presence was too much. If it was so deeply affecting his coworkers, a gaggle of complete strangers, then how could he not have expected it to affect him?
Gin slipped his notes back into his file cabinet and collected what he had written so far, putting it to the side for later. Forget work. He was sick. He needed to go home and sleep for a good month or two. By then the excitement would have calmed down; the day that Rangiku Matsumoto came to visit Swing magazine would be nothing but a fond memory in those who had been in the relative proximity of greatness. Making sure he had his keys and wallet, he stepped out of the office, closing the door behind him. Damn it, did there have to be twelve people blocking his way? He could have decided to take the stairway on the other side of the building to avoid having to fight his way through the crowd, but his feet glued themselves to the floor the moment he turned his back on the throng.
Don't. He could hear his twelve-year-old self yelling at him from the recesses of his mind. Turn around. No, he didn't want to. Look at her. But what would happen when he did? Would he loses his senses, throw the door open, barge into the room and announce himself to her as if he were still a relevant part of her life? Would she even care, after what he had done to her?
Gin reoriented himself, facing the men and women peering eagerly into the small window on the door of the interview room. "What's this?" he said loudly, causing half of them to jump in surprise. "A bunch of slackers? I thought we had a deadline, people!"
"Oh, but Gin!" A gentle-looking intern named Momo gazed up at him with the same wide-eyed enthusiasm as the rest of them. "Come here and look!"
And he knew that he shouldn't, but his legs were moving before he had a chance to think twice about it. The others made room for him as he joined Momo at the door, and she pointed inside with a delighted smile. "She's even more beautiful in person, isn't she?" the young girl breathed, but at that point, Gin no longer heard a word she said.
She was there; the ghost of his past, the girl that had haunted his dreams for over a decade, in vivid detail and amazing Technicolor. Her golden hair was long and wavy, yet finally tame, not a single strand out of place. Her blue eyes had lost their timidity, but retained their sweetness. Her lips were painted to be a bit pinker, and pulled back into a luminous smile as the fortunate Kira asked her an inaudible question. She held herself elegantly, clad in a dazzling black dress that pooled over her body in a wave of luxurious silk that had probably cost hundreds of dollars.
After so many years, she had come down from heaven to hover over Gin's dirty little section of the world before returning to the sky, and her brightness was absolutely blinding. But what stuck out to him the most – the thing that caused his fingers to twitch, his arm to lift from its place at his side – was the worn pink fabric tied loosely around her neck. Among her rich clothing, her otherworldly shine, there remained a tiny piece of him.
He felt the cool glass beneath his fingertips, pressing on it as if in doing so he could melt through the door and stumble back into her life. All he had to do was knock – even a quiet tap would do – and she would turn her head in his direction. But he had no right. This was the way it should have been: the lowly writer admiring the gorgeous movie star from a respectable distance, taking in everything about her with such desperate longing that it caused him physical pain.
He removed his hand from the glass, removed himself from the door, and removed his eyes from her countenance. "Yeah," he said distractedly to Momo, "she really is." And with that, he walked away from Rangiku Matsumoto for the second time in his life.
…
They were headed to California, and Gin had yet to hear the end of it. "I can't wait!" Rangiku cried, pacing the confines of the cart as it rattled along the track below, her eyes alight with barely restrained joy. "California, the Promised Land! The birthplace of dreams! Go west, young man!" She threw her arms into the air and twirled once, but the motion of the train made her stop and blink dizzily.
Gin grinned. "Calm down," he waved her over, and once she had recovered from her spin, she skipped across the open space between them. "We'll be there soon enough, I think. Who knows? Maybe we're already there."
"Really?" she said breathily, the hope in her eyes making his smile falter, but only slightly.
"Sure, we've been traveling for a while now." He knew the distance well. California was one of those places that Gin had been to three or four times, and though it wasn't exactly his cup of tea, Rangiku had clung to every word he'd ever spoken on the subject. The state was like another planet to her, its name synonymous with Eden, a paradise for the beautiful and talented.
And that was exactly why Gin was taking her there.
It had been an incredibly hard decision to make. He had lost several nights of sleep over it; nights that he had spent watching Rangiku sleep, keeping her hair out of her smiling face as she dreamt of glamour and glitz. Losing her would be the hardest thing he would ever have to endure; more so than the death of his parents, who had never shined half as brightly as the girl curled up beside him. There was so much about her that he would miss: her company, her enthusiasm, her crazy schemes and daydreams, the way she looked at him when she thought he wasn't noticing. But the time for her to rise to her rightful place was at hand. There would be no other opportunity, because he would never again summon the courage to let her go.
In a matter of hours, the train was stopping in Los Angeles, California, and Rangiku was out the door before Gin could remind her to be careful not to get spotted. "Come on!" she cried, poking her head back into the cart. "Let's go explore!"
Gin had obliged her, keeping the smile plastered to his face so that she wouldn't think something was amiss. He took in her adorably eager expression, her lighthearted steps. This was where she belonged, he thought. Even in rags and looking slightly disheveled, she fit right into the energetic setting. She could have clasped the hand of the well-dressed woman to their left and easily passed off as her daughter. Yes... California was perfect for her. She had been born for this land.
"I guess we should start working now, huh?" Rangiku had turned to him and winked. "See how much we can milk from this snooty crowd?"
It was now or never. "Sure, you go ahead. I forgot something on the train," Gin said, though in fact he had left nothing behind. Promising to return shortly, he retraced their steps back to the railroad. Had they really walked so far? That was good. He'd be gone before she even had time to arrive at the yard and look for him.
Upon reaching the station, he darted behind unmoving trains, avoiding the eyes of the railway employees. His feet expertly carried him over track after track, having learned a long time ago how to avoid getting caught in them. He navigated to the train they had arrived on and boarded it, making quick work of gathering his things. He'd leave hers there… oh, but she would need the pillow and blanket… and the food… Gin looked at their small pile of belongings. Most of that stuff was replaceable; he'd get more in the next city. So he took only the black scarf she had given him and what little clothes he had, then hopped down from the cart and searched the yard.
Over there. He could see a train preparing to leave, pointed toward the east. Moving back across the tracks, he found a relatively empty cart and placed his things inside. He managed to scramble up into the space before the conductor turned in his direction. Phew! That had been a close one.
Wait… he'd forgotten something. When they had stopped in Arizona, he'd managed to score a piece of paper and a pencil, with which he had written Rangiku a good-bye note explaining his motives for leaving her. And now, as he placed his hand into his pocket, he felt the folded paper within it. Damn it! He would have to run back and leave the note on top of the pillow. But just as he went to do so, the train whistle blew, the mighty machine coming to life and jerked forward. He lost his footing and fell backwards, landing on his rear with a hiss of pain.
"Gin?"
Oh no.
His head snapped up, wide eyes meeting Rangiku's blue. She stood at a distance from the train, and already she had to walk faster than normal to keep up with it. "Gin, what are you doing? Get off!" she cried over the noise. When he didn't budge, didn't speak, didn't do anything but stare at her, her expression changed from confusion to the horror of her realization. "Gin!"
"Go back, Ran!" he finally managed to say.
"What? No!" She was jogging now, the train picking up speed with every passing second. "I won't! Not without you, Gin!"
"Ran…" He looked away from her, his head turning toward the wind. Laid out ahead of him was a long, lonely life; a world without his best friend, his companion and partner in crime.
"Gin!" And he couldn't help but glance at her again; her outstretched hand, her wild blond hair flying every which way, her fear-filled eyes and the tears that descended from them. It was one of those sights that he would never, ever forget. The train was too loud for him to hear her, too fast for her to keep up. She was slipping away from him, and he could see that someone had spotted her; a uniformed man was headed in her direction, calling out with no voice. But she kept right on chasing the train, screaming until she was red in the face…
Gin closed the door between them. It was a bit quieter now, as if he had thrown a wall between himself and the chaos. But that was nothing compared to the mayhem of thoughts and emotions rampaging through his growing frame. He stepped backwards until his body connected with the wall, and he slid down onto his sore rear end, burying his face in his hands. His eyes closed, but he could still see her. She was there, and so was the hurt, the anguish, the betrayal.
Then, the strangest thing happened: Gin smiled. He suppressed nothing, mentally calling himself every bad word he knew, allowing the guilt and the anger to eat him alive. Through the pain that threatened to make his heart stop beating, through the tears that caught him by surprise when he felt them wet his palms… he smiled. Because that simple gesture, that deceptively happy mask had helped him survive in the past. It had attracted the customers that gave him the money he needed to buy food. It had enchanted the strangers that provided for his well-being. And now, he thought with certainty, that same smile would help him get over the loss of his first love.
And Rangiku… she would be alright without him. This was going to make her stronger. She would be better off than she ever had been. No lying pastors to take advantage of her, no brainwashed parents to rebuke her, no orphaned criminals to hold her back. Now was her chance to reach for the sky.
"Good-bye Ran."
…
"Hey." Gin didn't know when he had fallen asleep at his desk, but he was startled awake by his boss's voice, followed by a light thwack upside his head. Completely disoriented, he wiped a hand over his face, scratching at the light fuzz along his jaw. He'd slept in that morning, and in his haste to make it to work on time he had neglected to shave.
Three days had passed since Rangiku's interview with the magazine. Gin had been quick to request seeing it "for editing purposes" before Kira had handed it in, and had spent his Wednesday night reading it, drinking each word like medicine for his weary soul. Rangiku had just finished filming a movie that was due to come out in December. She had laughingly told Kira that her costars often worried about her, seeing as she had recently completed The Beautiful Lie and had then jumped headfirst into a new project not even a month later. Yes, she was single, but no, she was not looking to date anyone. She wanted to focus strictly on her career now that she was at the peak of her popularity, and even hoped to direct someday.
"We've been hearing rumors from the set of The Beautiful Lie that this was your most dramatic performance ever. A nameless source told our magazine that, and I quote, 'The level of emotion, the brutal honesty and degree of passion that Ms. Matsumoto put into that role was like nothing I had ever seen. She even made the director cry.' What can you tell us about that?"
"I have a feeling that I know who your nameless source is. However, I can't say much about it myself. It is up to the opinion of the viewer to judge whether or not I played my part well… though I sure hope they enjoy the movie!"
Her responses had been so sweet and modest. No wonder she was Hollywood's It Girl. Rangiku could do no wrong; perhaps it had been that churchy upbringing of hers. Gin was genuinely happy for her. She was healthy and thriving, with many good friends that could help her get to where she wanted to go, and a pure heart that captivated audiences all over the country.
Urahara didn't seem to notice the fact that his employee was barely lucid, as he started talking before Gin had finished yawning. "What are you doing this Saturday?"
Oh dear. Had Yoruichi dumped him? This was awkward. Gin held up his hand. "If you're asking me on a date, I have this strict rule about office romances."
Kisuke laughed humorlessly. "Look, I know you're sick and all, but I've got a very important job that needs doing and everyone else is busy. Since you were the only one to leave early on Monday, you were volunteered."
"Joy!" Gin pushed his chair back and lifted his legs up onto the desk, leaning back with his hands clasped behind his head. "What do you need, Boss?"
"You are going to be attending the red carpet premiere of The Beautiful Lie." Gin's heart stuttered. "Ms. Matsumoto was so taken by our hospitality that she invited us to write about the event for our next issue. Good publicity for her, good publicity for Swing." Kisuke reached into his shirt pocket and withdrew a case of cigars, withdrawing one and sticking it between his teeth. "You're not allowed to refuse this one, Gin. Even if you're green in the face and throwing up everything you eat."
Gin scratched his stubble thoughtfully. "But if I am green in the face and throwing up my innards, I'll be compensated for the stress, right?" Crap. There would be no avoiding it this time. It seemed like life was out to get him, desperate to put him close enough to Rangiku that his body would be smashed against the invisible wall dividing them.
"Sure! You'll be given a nice pat on the back and be the envy of all your coworkers, just like Kira," Kisuke said, waving at him over his shoulder as he left the office.
"Yeah, yeah…" Gin closed his eyes, wishing that he would wake up to discover that he'd dreamt that whole conversation. But at least a red carpet event wasn't nearly as dangerous as Monday's interview had been. With all those cheering fans and camera flashes, added to the fact that his head would be bent over a notepad most of the time, Rangiku would be far too preoccupied to peer into the darkness for long.
…
Gin recalled the first time he had heard of Rangiku after their separation in California. He was sixteen then, and had been standing in line to pay for his groceries when, over the radio on a nearby counter, he heard a familiar voice singing an upbeat commercial jingle. He had initially dismissed it as a product of his imagination. Then he had nearly fallen to his knees in the middle of a store a week later when he'd opened a magazine and found her posing with a bottle of suntan lotion.
Having grown out of her puberty phase, Rangiku had looked absolutely stunning as she smirked coyly at the camera. A perfectly rehearsed smile, a body that was neither too thin nor too pudgy, and a lengthening mane of hair. Gin had bought the magazine… and then he'd been too scared to open it again.
But soon, seeing her became unavoidable. With the success of that first jingle, she had gone on to do several more before someone had realized that keeping her off-camera would be a crime. Soon Gin couldn't go to a movie without seeing her flirting with some jock, or crying over a lost pet, or slapping someone with her dainty, gloved hand. He couldn't listen to the radio without hearing her sing. He couldn't open a magazine without catching a glimpse of her face.
She was everywhere.
So Gin had attempted to distract himself by taking up writing. He'd started with short stories, then went on to explore nonfiction and journalism. He used his past experience to write about travel, painting such marvelous pictures of the cities he'd visited that tourists flocked to them in droves. In no time, his reviews had become so popular that he'd been offered money to go places and write about them. He thought this ironic, considering the pains he had gone through to train-hop across the country for survival.
And it was his travel articles that had caught the eye of Kisuke Urahara, the editor in chief of a Los Angeles-based magazine who had all but begged for Gin to come work for him. "We need more people like you," he'd said in his letter. Gin had told him up front that he lacked a college degree, or even a formal high school education, but Mr. Urahara had insisted that neither mattered in the face of such advanced writing.
Grateful for the praise and the opportunity, Gin had packed up and moved to California. He did so in spite of the fact that he was closer to Rangiku than ever; that not only would he see her in advertisements and television and hear her sweet voice on the radio, but now there was the slight chance that he could bump into her on the street somewhere. In a fit of nostalgia, he had even made it a habit to visit the train station where he had abandoned her, every September on their birthday.
And sometimes, as he stood in the darkness beside the train tracks, he swore that he could still hear her screaming his name.
…
The worst thing about red carpet premieres was that they were messy affairs. Gin found it hard to write a single sentence as he was jostled back and forth between a sweaty and overweight woman wearing a fur coat that smelled like mothballs, and a group of giggling teenage girls. He had chosen not to stand with the rest of the press, as the bursting bulbs of their cameras would have him blinded before the night was through. The stars hadn't even arrived yet; what the hell were they taking pictures of?
Grumbling to himself, Gin tried to enjoy the chilly evening air. Autumn was finally upon them, though it was hardly noticeable in LA. He had been considering packing up and going somewhere with snow for the winter. A nice break, in which he could get away from his thoughts and his senseless longing, and perhaps learn how to ski. That would be fun. It had been years since he'd last seen snow, and the powdery stuff had always enchanted him. Somehow, the world seemed so much more beautiful when it was frozen over, blanketed in white, icicles clinging to every surface.
A particularly rough push from the overweight woman snapped him out of his thoughts. The crowd's excitement seemed to have increased tenfold in the last few seconds. Lifting his head, he could see why. A stretch limousine had pulled up to the curb, a sharply dressed attendant coming around the vehicle to open its door, and out stepped the film's male lead. The cameras went wild, providing for him the light of his celestial status. He waved and smiled, posed as he had learned to in the course of his career.
Gin sighed and scribbled a few notes as he tried to blink away the smudges left on his vision by the lightning-quick flashes exploding in every perceivable direction. Once he was certain that he could see again, he looked back up to locate the actor…
…and instead, found himself watching Rangiku carefully climb out of the limousine. Clutching a fur wrap to her chest, she emerged into the light and the noise, stretching to her full height and putting on a broad smile. Man, she sure had gotten good at this. She showed no hesitation, no intimidation as she stood before the admiring multitude. She even giggled a bit. Ah, she looked… so happy. Gin's hand worked over his notepad, absently writing a few sentences as his eyes locked onto her and refused to budge, no matter how bad of a headache he was getting from those pesky cameras. She walked forward and took the arm of her costar, the two holding still for a few "couple pictures". The girls next to Gin gossiped about how good they looked together; were they dating, they wondered? Romances always blossomed on set, especially when the actors were fulfilling such passionate rolls.
Gin abruptly snapped his notepad shut. Well, he had gotten all that he needed. His stomach was growling, so perhaps he would run off and find dinner while the movie played, then come back in time to get a few sentences on the post-premiere events. No use sticking around getting battered by strangers. He slipped the pad and pen into the inside pocket of his jacket and turned to leave, conjuring up a mental map of the area. There should have been some decent Asian food around here somewhere and…
Huh. That was strange. He could have sworn he'd heard someone call his name.
Ah, well. He shoved his hands into his pockets and began pushing his way through the assembled. But suddenly it seemed like the crowd was thinning, despite the many rows of people he still had to fight through. And was it his imagination, or were they moving away from him?
"Gin!"
He stopped dead. That voice was no product of his cruel imagination. Gin looked over his shoulder, his eyes opening wide, his heart lurching in his chest. The lead actor stood abandoned on the red carpet, and a few feet away, with the crowd parting for her, Rangiku Matsumoto had the skirt of her dress gathered up in either hand and she was running, her Hollywood smile and perfect composure lost to the bewildered look on her face that crumpled at the sight of him.
And in that moment, the world seemed to turn more slowly, time ticking at a lethargic pace, all sound and sight and perception fading to nothing but the woman who ran to him with outstretched hands, her lips forming the single syllable of his name. The shooting star in all its radiance, hurtling towards the earth with no regard for what would be destroyed the instant they collided. And suddenly, every rationalized argument that Gin had ever made for his abandonment of that girl who he had loved so dearly – the dreamer, the singer, the actress, and his very best friend – catapulted themselves out the window. He removed his hands from his pockets, turned himself to face her, and his arms opened just wide enough to let her in.
With paparazzi and fans and God as their witnesses, Rangiku collapsed against Gin, buried her face into his chest, clutched at his back and wept without restraint. The crowd may have been too stunned to move, but Gin wasn't. He wrapped his strong arms around her, shielding her sudden frailty from the outside world. It was just the two of them. Their jobs, the lives they had so meticulously constructed without each other, crumbling to nothing but wasted years; years that they could have spent together like this.
"W-Why did you leave me?" Rangiku sobbed, her honest tears smearing the makeup used to create the image that belonged to the world.
"Oh, Ran…" Gin breathed into her hair, holding her so tightly that he could barely breathe. "You deserved so much better than me," he moved one arm to catch her chin between his fingers, tilting her head up to gaze into her eyes. "You were throwing away your potential, your dreams, and what for? To follow me on some adventure in poverty that would never end?"
"But I didn't care about any of that!" Rangiku cried, and now it was her turn to take his face into her hands. "It didn't matter what the circumstances were, Gin. If I was with you, I was happy. Do you really think that all of this stardom is anywhere near as wonderful as my days with you were?" She caressed his cheek with her fingers. "Gin… all of this, I never did it for myself." He looked at her in surprise. "This whole time, I've been singing and acting and being the best that I could, so that I could bring you back to me." A smile more breathtaking than any he had ever seen on film lit up her features, her eyes glistening with tears waiting to be shed. "And here you are."
Gin must have lost his mind. Surely, he was still in bed in his subpar bachelor pad. But whether it be a dream or reality – and he was pretty certain that it was reality, if the barrage of camera flashes were anything to go by – he knew the outcome of both. A mischievous grin stretched his mouth as far as it would go, and Rangiku was quick to understand. Her hand slipping into his, she let out an exhilarated laugh as he turned and began to run, pulling her along with him.
The press was quick to follow, like the policemen that had chased them in days long past. Rangiku's sweet laughter was music to his ears. They ran until they had ditched their pursuers, and even then they didn't slow down. They wouldn't slow down for anything in the world; not their responsibilities – those could be taken care of later – and not for the sake of reputation – who were they kidding? They were urchins, they were thieves, they were street performers. He was the orphaned magician, and she was his alluring assistant.
The entire country was their playground, and they had all the time and money in the world to tread it. Hollywood passed by them in a blur of light, color and sound, the distance between them closing the farther they ran, the closer they got to their destination.
And what was that, they wondered? Perhaps a big house on the countryside, with a dog and a cat and a colorful bird; plenty of land for the animals – and some children, maybe – to run. But that was still a while away. For now, they had their sights set on something much simpler, much cheaper.
They were flying high as they found the opening into the sprawling yard at the edge of the city. Their breathless laughter had to be contained as they hid behind the towering machines of their youth, keeping out of sight until the uniformed men had moved on to patrol elsewhere. They remembered the way to cross the field of wood and steel in such a way to prevent them from getting their feet caught. And when a piercing whistle sounded nearby, Gin pulled Rangiku in its direction as the train began to move forward, its nose pointed north. He reached out with his much longer arm and grabbed hold of an open door, hoisting himself onto the cart least loaded with cargo. Then he turned around, leaning out as far as he could, and scooped Rangiku into his arms.
Once she was on solid ground, he wiped the tears from her face, and her cheek nestled into his open palm, her eyes drifting shut. Upon meeting, he had told her that he wouldn't hurt her, and now, as he brought his lips to hers, he swore that he would keep that promise until the day he died.
Behind them, the lights of the city created a halo above its buildings, beckoning the dreamers to their own personal Eden. But Gin and Rangiku were headed into the darkness of the unknown, and they couldn't be happier, for they had found paradise in each other a long time ago.
The End
A/N: Oh my goodness, that was too long… but I loved this idea like a mother loves her eighteen year old son, and therefore needed to kick it out of the house.
And now, back to my other fics!
/Princess Kitty1/