Diclaimer: disclaimed.
Twenty-three.
He spots her first in December. She's sitting—perching, really—on the roof of one of the halls on Karakura University campus, between some towers and spires, staring into the twilight sky. Pausing in his frenzied commute from biochemistry to environmental science he eyes her carefully, unsure of how to react. He shrugs after a minute and walks on.
Twenty-two.
She keeps catching his eye, with her forlorn expression and strange clothes. But really, she never so much as notices him and for several weeks he glances at her as he walks by, quickly at first, but then he really looks. And that's when he's captured.
Twenty-one.
The first time he settles next to her she thinks it's some human who took an interest in the sky. So when the boy—who has white hair, she notices belatedly—says bluntly, "You're going to freeze up here, you know," she very nearly falls off the roof. And as soon as she looks—glares, really—at him, her jaw drops. From the distinguishable hair to the casual, dark-colored clothes to the learn frame and startling eyes—how the hell did I not notice him before?—the boy is every bit "Toushirou," she breathes, heart clenching. He frowns. "That's not my name."
Twenty.
They get to talking, although at first it's only subtle probes about who she is and why she's here. After a few days he asks her why she looks at the sky with such fervor. "It reminds of someone," she says quietly. He asks nonchalantly, "The same someone I remind you of?" "Yes." Frowning, he nods absentmindedly. "I always preferred sunsets, myself." He doesn't see her eyes close, as if she's in pain.
Nineteen.
The first time he laughs—more of a chuckle, really—her breath catches and her eyes fog. It's so beautiful and she so wants it to be real but the lightness of his eyes and absence of shadows on his face is proof that it is so wrong. Later that night, she calls Hinamori and breaks down over the phone, crying and shaking. It takes her over four hours to pull herself together.
Eighteen.
One day he gets that cramping feeling in his chest at the same time she cranes her head anxiously. To his question she says only, "Close your eyes." A minute later, she's gone without a trace and then the worried feeling eases as the foul presence vanishes and somehow he just knows it's her.
Seventeen.
When he tells her—proudly, like he would have—of his dream to save the environment single-handedly, she nods, unsurprised, murmuring, "Of course you do." His soulsake always did, and though they're not the same person—she keeps having to remind herself—the soul who was once him would always be an overachiever.
Sixteen.
She asks him why he doesn't fear her, with her vague answers of war and spirits to his questions of who she is and sword and soldier's build and old eyes. He answers thoughtfully, "I don't know, really. You looked sad, I guess. And human." He shrugs. "Does it matter? I'm glad I talked to you in the first place."
Fifteen.
He thinks she's beautiful, with her long, silky hair and pale skin and slim frame and wry lips. She doesn't look a day over twenty and yet the way she speaks and holds herself and her eyes—God,her eyes—he knows that she's been through so much more than he could ever imagine. It doesn't frighten him.
Fourteen.
She knows he's not Toushirou, because her friend-lover-superior-classmate-everything wouldn't be so easygoing and laugh and enjoy life and—and wouldn't be dead. But kami help her—this boy looks too much like Toushirou for her to ignore.
Thirteen.
"You're not human," he says one day, out of the blue. "Are you?" And because she can't deny those eyes anything, she blurts out, "In a sense." He surprises her by letting the subject drop, but the silence isn't awkward and he doesn't look afraid and she wordlessly thanks him for it.
Twelve.
One day he asks about the man he once was. She's not surprised he worked it out; he'll always be a genius. "He was…" she stops, wondering where to begin, and what to end with. "He was proud of everyone except himself. Talented beyond belief. Insecure. Traditional. Protective, cautious, mature, irrational, commanding. Gentle. Unkind, sometimes, and insensitive. Strict. Curious. Independent." Feeling his eyes on her face, she sucks in a shaky breath. "Warm."
Eleven.
He begins to hate this man, this Toushirou that brings such longing and pain to his friend's eyes. How ironic, he thinks, I hate my own past self. And he begins to feel something for this girl, but it doesn't have a name. It's nothing he's felt before, and it scares him.
Ten.
"What do you do all day?" He's taken to asking questions more frequently than before, and she can't say she minds. Toushirou was always a closet child-at-heart. Purposely vague, she mentions patrol and reports and sealing, stroking her sword absentmindedly.
Nine.
She knows what she's doing is selfish and wrong. It's illegal to interact with humans, although the boy has incredible reiatsu and control. She has no doubt he's Toushirou's reincarnation, but—and this is where she has to blink back tears—Toushirou is dead.
Eight.
Of all the inventions he shows her, from a simple binder to his smartphone, her favorite is his iPod. The one time he's able to sneak up on her—aside from the first time, of course—is when she's immersed in the small machine. Her lips are parted and her hips are moving and her eyes are closed and he is mesmerized.
Seven.
Although it's a very bad idea, it's scarier to have him wandering around without protection. At least that's what she tells herself. Though the idea of teaching him shunpo is tempting, she can't bear the thought of him dying saving someone else, again, picking up a child in a monster's way. It's too risky to teach him kido, so instead he learns how to completely smother his reiatsu signature. It's all she can leave him with, and she prays it will be enough.
Six.
It took him a while to realize he was in love with her, this woman he saw once a day for hours that could have been better spent doing homework, who is a soldier from a land he can never understand with experiences he'll never get and beauty so breathtaking it can't be real. But once he does, he realizes he's an idiot, because he's fallen in love with someone there's no future with.
Five.
"We were in love, right? In my past life?" She rests her head on her knees, fisting the dark fabric. "I was in love with your past life. Not you." He grunts. "And then I died." "And then you died."
Four.
Sometimes he wants to remember being Toushirou, but most of the time he's content with being himself. Still, once in a while he catches himself wondering if a sense of déjà vu is simply her stories coming back to him and if soul mates really exist.
Three.
The first year after Toushirou died was horrible beyond words. It took her longer than that to realize life goes on, to ignore the pain, and return to her post. It's been twenty years and she thinks of him every day. Sometimes it's only a matter of pushing thoughts away, but sometimes the despair is like holding up the sky. And now—seeing him every day, and not just in her imagination—it's worse and better; she wants to cry and kiss him at the same time and it's slowly tearing her apart. Seeing him is an addiction: everything about him makes her heart break all over again every day because he's not Toushirou. And yet, she won't—can't stop.
Two.
It startles him when he notices she doesn't get cold, because he doesn't either.
One.
He knew she would leave one day; it's something they've never talked about but know. But it wasn't supposed to be this…abrupt.
"I'm leaving," she says one evening. "Going home." Gentle gray eyes linger on his face, as if trying to memorize it. "We won't see each other anymore." She can't say never again, because there's always a chance and if it would happen to anyone, it'd be them. "Promise me something?" No pause because she can feel her walls crumbling down. This boy, with his achingly familiar self, tears through her self-control effortlessly. "Find someone to live for. But," her voice cracks and she stands, not making eye contact. "But above all," a gate appears out of thin air but he has eyes for only her. "Be happy." Finally, she meets his beautiful similar wrong eyes, her own sparkling with unshed tears. Slowly she bends down, eyelashes fluttering, and places a gentle kiss on his forehead. One last time she inhales his unique scent, and whispers, "In another life." Then she rises, tears sliding down her cheeks, and walks away. The second the gate closes she collapses, sobbing unashamedly.
in another life
God that's depressing. I seem to be writing a lot of that lately...
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