It had been a long time since he'd felt this sleek. Perhaps it was the careless way he was holding himself, as if the angular lines defining his slender, lissom body slanted into the ground at such a degree of blasé arrogance that he had no choice but to be hypnotizingly attractive. Or perhaps it was the way others' eyes roamed freely over his svelte frame, shamelessly appreciating the elegant conceit of the way the slightly tattered grey suit clung to his lean figure. But the altogether more likely cause was the gentle weight riding on his narrow hips, reminding him of his purpose at such a genteel establishment.
He flicked the ash from the end of his cigarette and took a deep breath of the smoke, the pinpoint of scarlet light searing the darkness outside. He didn't usually smoke, but every once in a while he felt the urge to reach for a cigarette – his rough, bloody excuse for a childhood had left him addicted to nicotine. And while he'd managed to break the habit somewhere between where his last year in high school and his first year in college would have been (had he not been employed since the age of ten by the Agency), he just couldn't help himself sometimes. He was the same way with alcohol – clean for the most part, but every once in a while he'd relapse back into bad habits.
His partner-slash-caretaker kept him in line; made sure he stayed out of trouble for the most part. She understood why he gave in to his addictions sometimes, yet was firm enough to prevent him from overdosing whenever things got bad – After all, he was an adult now. What he did was his business. Mostly. He was barely 23, yet he'd already become the most successful operative within the network. That sort of notoriety needed a pseudo-release; a way to forget as quickly as possible. But she wouldn't be here to help him this time, wouldn't be here to keep him in line. She'd been sent to wait in his apartment, to await him when he stumbled in through his door, undoubtedly in no state to care for himself.
The Agency needed him. So they did this every time. Ever since his first assignment, he'd had somebody there waiting for him, planted close by to delay his inevitable collapse into rage and grief and self-loathing.
The Agency needed him, but they were also destroying him.
He took another breath of the noxious smoke from his cigarette, a sour smile working its way across his handsome – daresay beautiful? – features, marring the alluring perfection with cruel sadism. There was nothing left for him in this rotting city, nothing left except the dull monotony of the Agency and the long dead corpse of the woman he'd once thought he'd loved.
She'd followed the traitorous bastard into the watery mist with a smile on her face, telling him that she'd be fine, that she'd come home to him. They'd never heard from her again. After that, he'd never been the same. And when they found her body – defiled – he'd broken. That was the first time he'd tried to kill himself. He'd taken a kitchen knife, slit both of his wrists, and left himself to bleed out in the bathtub. He'd been eighteen years old. It had only been coincidence that Matsumoto had walked into his apartment when she had – just in time to spot a thin stream of crimson leak out from under the closed bathroom door. She'd immediately called an ambulance and he'd woken up in the hospital the next evening with a senior member of the Agency keeping watch over him. Since then, they'd been very careful with him. He'd practically been raised by the Agency, and had always worked for them, so they knew the patterns he cycled through before one of his suicide attempts.
He leaned forward, elbows on the balcony, pinching his cigarette between two fingers and ran his fingers through messy white hair. The city below him seemed dark and drab even though it was spangled with lights and laughing people and he looked down at it now, wishing he could still see some semblance of beauty in life.
The earpiece in his ear suddenly buzzed to attention.
"Agent 010, your targets have arrived in the building."
He didn't reply, only turned on his heel and sauntered back into the penthouse casino, adjusting the collar of his crisp white shirt. Deft, nimble fingers unbuttoned the top few buttons of the slightly stained dress shirt, exposing creamy skin and his sharp collarbone. Then he ground out his cigarette in one of the many ashtrays, slipped a few bills into his hand, and entered the gambling network.
Before long, he'd won several rounds of cards and doubled his little money easily – oh, the perquisites of being a prodigy – and he stood up, intent on finding the men he was supposed to find. He went over to the bar, flashing a fake ID – he was of age, but that didn't mean he wanted people to know who he was – in the bartender's face and buying himself a glass of scarlet wine. Then he glanced subtly at the men next to him, identifying the faces easily.
Brown hair, hazel eyes, narrow face. Sosuke Aizen, age 39. A master of deception. This man was the mafia's kingpin. And just behind him. Black dreadlocks, blind. Tousen Kaname, age 32. Aizen's right-hand man.
His targets.
He allowed his posture to fall open, leaning back against the counter with a sort of seductive allure, as if he was already completely drunk. His eyelids dropped to half-mast, the green glass marbles melting to soft gemstones for the time being. He took a sip from his wineglass, the scarlet liquid staining his pale lips as red as blood. Warmth flushed through him, a flash of fire in his cold husk of a body. Alcohol always did that to him at first. He'd gotten used to the brief burn.
"What year is that?"
The voice was smooth, almost airborne silk, and the young man let a slight flush creep up his cheeks. If the file was correct, then both Aizen and Kaname were almost always looking to expend time and effort luring unwary, usually cash-wanting youngsters to their business. Selling drugs and love. He would fit right in – his face was pretty and his body slight, both easy to abuse. And his clothing, worn as it was, suggested that he needed money.
They were masters of subtle persuasion, so all he had to do was play along. It was an easy job, really.
"Ah…1929, if I read the label right."
He turned toward Aizen, lips slightly parted, his long eyelashes framing sparkling, tempting eyes. His posture shifted slightly, drawing attention to his slimness, his obviously small frame and the ragged state of his outfit. But he remained silent while Aizen's hazel glance traveled down his body, lingering on the wad of crumbling cash in his pocket, merely watching the other's appraising gaze in no slight amusement. As if he could feel embarrassment anymore. He'd lost any sort of innocence a long time ago – it had been taken from him before his seventeenth birthday.
Detached. He was numb, his heart and soul broken in two. But what else could he do? Where else could he go?
And then the moment was broken. Aizen looked away from him, and turned to the bartender.
"If you could give me a glass of the same." He asked pleasantly. The bartender nodded and flitted away to pour the drink. Kaname came up behind the mafia kingpin, his sleek black suit very obviously custom tailored to full accentuate his slender musculature.
"So, what's your name, boy?"
The white-haired man's temper flared.
"I am not a child." he snapped, jade eyes narrowing. Suddenly the weight at his hip was unbearable, and he had to stop his fingers from twitching toward it. "I am twenty-three."
Kaname held up his hands in a gesture of peace, blind eyes opening in slight surprise.
"Really now!" he exclaimed, his husky, raspy voice chilling the blood of the nearby revelers. "You could have fooled me, seeming as young as you do. There's just something…innocent about you, if you get my meaning. You do not seem as if you belong in a place like this. Perhaps you should be elsewhere."
Kaname's smile grew by several teeth as the white-haired young man before him flushed a deep crimson and mumbled something, and he leaned in close to the boy's pretty face, taking the narrow chin in his hand.
"So…what's your name?"
His breath puffed in warm clouds on his prey's cold face, each one scented by alcohol and the faintest traces of breath mints. A shiver traveled down the younger's spine, a shiver of apprehension and suppressed tension. To any other being, it would be interpreted as simultaneous fear and excitement. But for this individual, it was merely apprehension. No heat could stir his cold blood and thaw his frozen heart.
Not anymore.
"Toushiro Hitsugaya…" the younger man breathed, tense. It was his real name, of course. That was his signature. He always told his targets his real name.
They should know their killer's identity.
"Toushiro, hm?" Kaname mused, stroking the young man's cheek with a sort of curiosity. He traced his fingers over Hitsugaya's delicate features, mapping out the boy's face with sensitive fingertips. "You have a striking face. I can tell that just by touch…Don't you agree with me, Aizen? This young one must be quite popular with the ladies. Perhaps we could use him in our establishment."
The other man came up behind his subordinate, raising his wineglass in a mock toast.
"Yes, quite." The man purred. "But let the boy finish his drink, and then we can…talk to him a bit more."
Kaname withdrew his hand and glanced suggestively at the young man sitting next to him. Hitsugaya allowed a blush to crawl up his face again, affecting the look of a naïve young man completely unprepared for two older individuals making such innuendos. And then he was back to himself, sipping slowly at his wine, the scarlet liquid filling his blood with the barest hints of the long-absent fire.
Seduction. He was a master at beguiling his enemies into his traps, luring unwary victims into deadly games of death and blood. It was his keystone, using his body as pure temptation to get what he wanted. He knew that he was cut of the same silken cloth as these men, the same sumptuous fabric and rich embroidery of his soul matching perfectly with their outward exteriors. But the difference between them was his emptiness, the void in his heart and broken soul left by the man before him. Aizen had slaughtered the woman he'd loved. And despite how she was long gone, he could not help that he still loved her. It had driven him to madness.
But Aizen loved no one. And that was his saving grace.
It didn't take much more prodding for Kaname's hands to creep around the base of his ribcage, sinking into the soft skin there and immobilizing him with little effort. And Aizen came around in front of him, leaning in close and lightly tracing over his jugular with butterfly fingertips, testing the racing pulse below. The touches were threatening – a clear warning of the ill intent these men meant for him. If either man wanted to, they could easily overpower him now. With Kaname holding him down like he was, there was no escape.
"Let's go to my apartment. I believe I have a proposition for you…concerning a well-paying job. It seems to me that you could use one." the mafia kingpin purred into his ear.
Hitsugaya could only nod and allow a small gasp of air to whistle between his lips – both because of his mission and the image of helpless young man that he needed to upkeep. He knew he was doing well so far. The three made their way back to a silver car and Aizen slid into the driver's seat as Kaname manhandled their snow-topped captive into the backseat.
It wouldn't be the first time that the young man had let his body become so abused for a simple job, Toushiro reflected in the silence of his cold soul, placing the shell of his body on autopilot, programmed to respond to the mafia man's slightest touch. In his earlier days, he'd once made a mistake and allowed his target to find the slight weapon he'd been carrying. The man had torn it from his petite hands and in a fit of rage, forced himself on the boy. Twice. It had been pure luck that Hitsugaya had managed to get his gun back at all, let alone walk home in his condition. He'd spent nearly a week in the hospital after the rape, and Matsumoto had been hard pressed to foil all of his attempts at self-harm. They'd finally tranquilized him and kept him under heavy sedation while he was healing. It had been a rough three months while his mind recovered as best as it could.
It didn't take long for the three to reach a posh downtown apartment and make their way up into the glassy, glitzy interior. Neither of his targets found enough self control to search him, and he played along, his attempts at his alluring and innocent façade crumbling away as they reached the massive kitchen.
He pulled away from the pair sharply, staring up at the vaulted ceilings and massive, resonating space. The far wall was made entirely of glass, and a few black couches littered the monochrome space between the glass wall and the edge of the marble kitchen counters.
"What is the matter, Toushiro? Do you doubt our words?" Aizen purred threateningly at his prey.
Hitsugaya turned into a sharp profile, staring straight ahead at an expensive-looking Impressionist painting decorating an austere grey wall. His hand twitched towards the weight at his side, but he kept his composure and let his breath hitch, drawing the gun slowly.
"…You two are loaded." He murmured into the silence, turning the safety on the sleek handgun off. He only had two bullets. And he'd prefer to only use one. "A penthouse apartment this swanky? What kind of business are you running anyway?"
Kaname laughed softly, creeping closer to the petite young man before him until he was directly in front of Aizen. Hitsugaya felt his heart rate speed up. Almost a straight shot. Almost. He put a finger to his lips and grinned playfully, calling on memories of a faded, tarnished innocence to accomplish a smooth, childlike naïveté. He knew the job offer they would have made to him – Twenty thousand US dollars for every business week he "worked" for them. In other words, four thousand dollars would be the price for his body every night.
It was the same deal they had made for Momo. But her bullet had missed.
Just a bit more, and then I'll have you…
The ploy worked. Kaname bent his knees, kneeling down to look the boy in the eyes. Aizen loomed over them in the background, working on the buttons of his shirt with a hungry leer on his face. Toushiro smiled his first real smile of night and placed the barrel of his gun between Kaname's sightless eyes. For a moment, there was utter silence, all three the men staring at the silver metal.
Hitsugaya smiled humorlessly at Aizen and Kaname, both of whom seemed frozen by his sudden descent into cold apathy.
"Neither of you move even so much as a muscle." He said leisurely, almost sorrowfully. "My bullets are coated with a layer of a special solution which heightens their penetrative abilities by 300%. At this moment, I only need one bullet to kill the both of you. And my finger is…twitchy."
Aizen and Kaname both raised their hands to shoulder height, losing composure for just a moment. Then the mafia kingpin sighed and smiled knowingly.
"So, what do you want from us?" he asked smoothly. "If you want cash or cocaine, that's in the safe on the second floor. And the job offer I have for you is rather appealing as well. Judging by the state of your clothing, you need money, and my organization can provide you with a steady income."
Hitsugaya said nothing for a long moment, his pale face cold and drawn.
"What I want is to tell you my name. Nothing else." he said quietly. "I gave you my real name earlier this night. Toushiro Hitsugaya. But I have another moniker which you perhaps know better."
Kaname raised an eyebrow, cavalier despite being held at gunpoint.
"Ah? Enlighten us, Mr. Hitsugaya."
A sadistic scowl spilt the young man's face, his eyes glowing luminous, insane green and his snow-white hair stood on end, enhancing the unbalanced rage in the lean, predatory gaze. But there was so much pain in his eyes that it was hard to tell whom he hated more; the men before him…or himself.
"The Ice Prince." He snarled. "Assassin of the Agency."
Both men paled at the sound of the infamous codename on his bloody lips – they knew who he was, and knew how many people he'd killed in the past ten years, despite his youth. His reputation preceded him. He'd never once failed a mission. He'd made his first kill at the age of fourteen. And most important – he was psychologically damaged. Irreparably. It made him terrifying.
Hitsugaya tightened his grip on his gun.
"This is for Momo Hinamori."
He pulled the trigger.
A single gunshot, muffled by a silencer, rang out through the apartment, and both men slumped to the ground, their blood staining the pristine whiteness of the kitchen tile. Hitsugaya stared down at them disinterestedly. His mind was reeling – again. He couldn't keep doing this. It sickened him every single time, knowing that he was being used like a tool to end human lives. The Agency didn't care that he was killing people. In fact, these two were the first that he'd felt any sort of hatred toward. And even then, he wouldn't have wanted them dead.
But he'd avenged Momo.
Finally.
He left in a haze, stumbled off down the streets without really knowing or caring where he was going. The earpiece in his ear kept buzzing at him, voices filling his mind, but he paid them no attention. He had a bullet left in his gun. This had never happened before. He'd always been given just the bare minimum needed to kill his targets. The Agency was afraid that he'd kill himself.
They made a mistake this time.
He reached his apartment, slipping his gun back into the holster and unlocking the door. Matsumoto met him at the door, a glass of water in her hand, her expression soft.
"Report." She said gently. He needed the bluntness after a mission. Especially after Momo's botched mission and subsequent death.
"Dead. Both of them. HQ was right – they were going to offer me the same job." He said, his voice disjointed. He was on the edge of another breakdown. "Did I remember to get vodka?"
Matsumoto wordlessly handed him a shotglass for the potent drink and guided him to a chair. Then she poured out a measured amount of the alcohol and gave it to him, watching silently at he downed the glass in one jerky motion. Then he poured himself another two shots and drank those as well. It was then that Matsumoto moved the bottle out of reach.
"Are you going to drink yourself to oblivion again?" she asked him softly.
He nodded, jade gaze glazed by numbness. She put the bottle of vodka down by the sink and came around to kneel by his side. She reached out, took his too-pale face in her hands and looked gently into his eyes. He just looked back at her, hollow.
"You need to stop." she told him softly. "Working for the Agency is destroying you."
He hiccupped – he'd always been a lightweight when it came to alcohol, and the glass of wine he'd had earlier that night had already taken effect. And the vodka was sure to hit him like a sack of bricks.
"What else can I do?" he asked, almost in tears. "I don't know how to do anything else. But I can't let them use me like this anymore."
Matsumoto wrapped her arms around his thin frame, her blue eyes gentle. It was rare when the young man cried, but when he did, it meant he was mere millimeters away from ending his own life. That's why she was there. To make sure he didn't make his last kill.
"You need help." She told him softly. "You can't keep living like this. There's a sanatorium about two hours away – I went there once after…after Ichimaru was killed. It helped me a lot."
Hitsugaya laughed humorlessly.
"Can they help someone like me, though?" he mused aloud. "I don't think so. I have no desire to be kept in a padded room."
Matsumoto pulled the young man off his chair and held him close, running her hands through his soft white hair. He was limp in Matsumoto's arms, his vision already beginning to blur from alcohol consumption.
"But you can't live like this." She pleaded. "Please, Toushiro. You need to stop."
She was right.
"…you're right…" he said finally. He stood up unsteadily, leaving Matsumoto to dart up and stand protectively in front of the few knives in the kitchen. Her face became stern, almost worried.
"Toushiro…"
He held up a hand. He was so tired. So, so very tired.
"I'm going to my room." He said quietly. He stumbled unsteadily to the hallway, leaning heavily on the wall. His motor skills were failing miserably, but he managed to reach his bedroom with no incident. It took considerably longer for him to write out what he wanted to say though, considering the shaking of his hands. But he managed. Then he stood and staggered to the bathroom. He knew Matsumoto was just behind him, barely a few steps away. He didn't want her to see. So he closed the door and locked it.
Matsumoto realized her mistake the moment she heard the lock click. It took all of her remaining sanity to call the Agency and have them send an ambulance, instantly reporting everything that had happened since he'd walked in through the door. Then she hung up and started pounding on the door, trying to break it down.
"Toushiro! Toushiro, please!" she screamed, crying hysterically.
Inside, the young man looked into the mirror, his eyes fixed on the gleam of metal at his temple. A slight smile curled his lips up, the tears pouring down his face.
"Momo…is it any better on the other side?"
He unfolded the suicide note he'd written, looking over it one last time and signing it with a flourish. Then he took out his phone, took a picture, and sent it to the nearest news station along with his access code. With any luck, both the Agency and the mafia would be brought crumbling down by the publication of his story. He didn't want anyone else to suffer the way he had.
Matsumoto's screams barely reached him. She was the only person that he would regret leaving. She'd been so terribly kind to him, and he hadn't deserved any of it.
"I'm sorry, Rangiku." His voice was soft. "If there is any god out there…may he take pity on my ruined soul for what I'm about to do."
His lips lifted slightly. Grief and tranquility washed through him in equal amounts.
"Momo…I'm coming."
A gunshot.
The wail of a siren in the distance.
A bloodstained smile, cold but gentle.
He opened his eyes.
"Momo…is that you?"
A girl with gentle brown eyes and a kind smile nodded wordlessly and took his hand, pulling his soul up. Pale golden light swirled around her, gold with just a hint of scarlet flame. She seemed sad.
"Yes, Toushiro. It's me." She replied. Her fingers ghosted over the bullet wound in her love's skull. It was still bleeding. "Why did you do it?"
He was silent for several long moments, tears trickling down his face. The smile did not leave his lips.
"I couldn't live with myself anymore. I know that the Agency would continue to use me to kill people, despite my mental state. I couldn't let that happen." He said softly. "And I wanted one last glimpse of you. I know I'm not going where you are. You were always the better person of us two. But I wanted to see you again. Bedwetter."
"Shiro-chan." she retorted.
They shared a soft laugh as the door to the fading bathroom splintered open behind them. Paramedics rushed in, clustering around the limp body lying crumpled on the floor, and Matsumoto had to be dragged away as the medics gently lifted the cold corpse onto a stretcher and carted him away. Toushiro and Momo just watched, both seemingly upset by the sight of the young assassin's peaceful face, bloody temple and sightless emerald eyes. Even in death, nothing could break the white-haired boy's composure.
"Toushiro, you know that you're probably not going to heaven." Momo said softly.
He smiled gently at her and nodded, taking her hand in his.
"Are you?" he asked. She nodded timidly.
"I think so. I'm still waiting to hear, really." She murmured. "I did a lot of bad things too. But everyone up there says it was mostly for the right reasons. I certainly didn't want to do half of what the Agency made me do. And you didn't either…but…suicide is…I don't know. Maybe I can ask them to reconsider…"
Hitsugaya laughed outright, the gentle smile never leaving his face.
"It's alright, Momo. I'm getting what I deserve. It's justified." he said softly. "Just make sure you go to heaven for me. That will be enough."
Her body began to fade, enveloped by a subtle light.
"I love you, Toushiro." She said. "I wish you hadn't done this to yourself."
He smiled again. This time the smile was fainter, less certain. He had tears standing in his eyes again.
"It's okay, Momo." He reassured her gently. "If you are happy, it's enough for me."
He could feel it now, feel the burn of fire and sulfur on his ghostly skin. He knew where he was going. There was only one place for those like him.
"You are my happy ending, Momo." He told her. "You always were."
They both vanished, souls melting away from the mortal world. Momo dissolved into light and flew up to join the stars, sparkling beautifully for the remainder of eternity. And Toushiro dissolved into dust, sank down to fuel the fire below, forever looking up at the stars with melancholy yearning.
But as long as he could see her, he felt peace.
And perhaps, at the end of all time, they could be together again.
Matsumoto watched with tears in her eyes as they lowered Hitsugaya's casket into the grave. The day was cold and grey, a sorrowing mist swirling about the forlorn little graveyard, meandering between the damp tombstones as if unsure of its presence. The priest there seemed as if he didn't know what to say. But then again, Toushiro probably wouldn't have wanted the man to say anything. He'd known better than anyone else what the consequences of his actions were.
She recalled the long letter he'd written to her, left propped up by his faucet, stained by a single droplet of his blood.
His last words had been for her and for the people he'd affected.
Rangiku – Thank you for everything you have done for me. I'm sorry I could not find more meaning in it. I know where my soul is destined to go. I know I will never see Momo again. But in doing this to myself, I will cripple the Agency. I do not wish to be their pawn anymore. So please, please leave the Agency. I realized something on my last mission. None of the people I've killed have deserved their fate. I regret every moment of this life; regret every second I've spent suffering for these people.
Rangiku, you helped me to hang on long enough to truly regret what I've done. Thank you. Perhaps my death will placate the family members of the people I've killed. If anyone comes to you asking about me, please tell them the entire truth. Hold nothing back. I want them to know exactly what happened to make me the way I was.
With this note, I'm exposing the Agency. I've already sent the picture to the local news station. My access code is 101220HYORI. With any luck, the news reporters will gain access to my entire file. I want everything to be made known. Here is where my story ends. Here is where The Seireitei Agency ends. I don't want any more children to be abused the way I was.
To anyone who wishes to know:
My name is Toushiro Hitsugaya. I am 23 years old. My codename is the Ice Prince. I have been an assassin since the age of fourteen, and have been wounded sixteen times in my profession. This includes the two rapes I have suffered. It does not include any suicide attempts.
The Agency took me off the streets and molded me and the girl I loved into killers. She is dead now. Sosuke Aizen killed her. I killed him in return.
I was never mentally stable. I have tried to end my own life a total of four times since my love's death. This is my successful fifth attempt, I suppose. My last kill. I hope that my passing will provide some small comfort for the families of my victims. I assure you, I will suffer for it in the afterlife. I do not want my sins to go unpunished. Please, try to find it within your hearts to forgive me in some small way. I know what I have done has destroyed you and those around you. It has destroyed me too.
If anyone wishes to find out more about me, I would direct you to Rangiku Matsumoto. She was responsible for ensuring my wellbeing outside of my job. Please do not attack her in any way. She kept me alive when I was low. Nothing I did was her fault, and I can only hope that she will one day forgive me as well.
With this, I am leaving this world. It will be a release for me, knowing that neither I nor the Agency will be able to hurt anyone else after this. And I will receive a just punishment in death. I will welcome it. I deserve nothing less.
Farewell and Godspeed to you.
Toushiro Hitsugaya
His coffin lay in the deep hole now, carrying his remains into the earth. There was no sound made by any of the few mourners – nobody from the Agency except for her had shown up to his funeral, and she wasn't even part of the Agency anymore.
Toushiro's story had been published in the local paper the day before yesterday. It had made international news yesterday. Now the members of the Agency had been arrested by an international task force from some human rights committee. Even their nation's government had been appalled by the actions of their Agency – it appeared that they hadn't known the extent of what the Agency had been doing behind the scenes. Somehow, she hadn't been surprised by that.
She knelt in front of Toushiro's grave and let the white rose in her hand fall onto his casket, tears running down her face. She'd loved the poor boy dearly, despite how broken he was. Yet it hadn't been enough to stop him from putting a bullet through his own head.
Perhaps only Momo would have been able to stop him.
She looked at the gravestone next to the young man's final resting place, smiling brokenly at the name on the stone. She'd made sure that he was buried next to her. He would have wanted that.
"Take care of him, Momo." She whispered. "He loved you more than anything."
The graveyard was silent, uncaring, and Rangiku bowed her head and cried. Life had been so cruel to the young man. And he'd borne with it for so long, enduring all sorts of psychological torture in a vain attempt to wring some sort of meaning out of the cold world around him. Hopefully he was now at peace.
She would believe so for her own sake.
Suddenly she became aware of several footsteps behind her and a woman's soft cough. Matsumoto turned, blue eyes teary, and simply blinked at the older woman standing there. She was dressed appropriately, wearing all black, but Rangiku couldn't figure for the life of her where Hitsugaya may have known this woman.
"Are you Rangiku Matsumoto?" she asked gently.
The strawberry-blonde woman nodded mutely, unable to say anything lest the tears come again. The woman extended a hand and helped the distraught woman up.
"My name is Retsu Unohana." She murmured gently. "I was wondering if this was…was young Toushiro's funeral. I have a matter that…that I need to resolve with him. And perhaps it will give his spirit some sort of comfort."
Somehow, the way Ms. Unohana asked this question didn't ruffle Matsumoto's feathers the way a nosy reporter's questions would have. So she nodded brokenly, collapsing into a few sobs before composing herself. Ms. Unohana's face became downcast at that, and without even the slightest hint of any angst she knelt by the boy's open grave.
"I read your letter, Mr. Hitsugaya." She said calmly. "And I read about your life in the papers."
She lifted her face to the sky, tears streaking from her cheeks.
"You killed my husband." She said, her voice a curious mixture of anger and pity. "I hated the idea of you for seven years. But…I didn't know that a sixteen-year-old had held the gun."
She pulled a few daffodils out from under her black coat and gently tossed one into the grave. Tears were running down her face freely now.
"Before yesterday, when I saw your suicide note in the papers, I never thought for even a second that you weren't guilty. But now, I'm not so sure." She was speaking directly to the simple tombstone now, a slight smile on her quavering lips. "Seeing your picture finally put a face with the name you'd been, young Ice Prince. And now…"
She looked around at the small smattering of people there. Matsumoto was the only person genuinely crying. The other two men there looked sad yes, but only because the occasion called for sorrow. They hadn't known the young man as a person, only as a dying boy with a bullet in his brain. They'd been the paramedics to arrive on scene just in time to carry his body away. Those three were the only mourners at this lonely funeral. Where there should have been friends and family and siblings, there was no one. The poor child was alone in death, just as he had been in life.
Well, almost alone. If only he had seen that.
Retsu stood up, smiling down at his coffin with sorrow on her face.
"I'm so sorry, little one." She said. "I'm old enough to have been your mother. My husband, Kenpachi Zaraki…he could have been your father. You certainly weren't old enough to pass on, especially in the manner that you did. And no child should have been forced to do what you were forced to do."
She set her hand on his gravestone, rubbing the plain grey rock tenderly.
"I forgive you, Toushiro Hitsugaya." She said unsteadily. "And I think my husband would have done the same, had he known why you pulled the trigger. Your life was not your fault. I can no longer hate you. All I can find within me is pity and sorrow. You were too young, and the world was too cruel to you."
She stood and faced Matsumoto.
"Ms. Matsumoto, would it be alright for me to remain here for the remainder of the service?" she asked quietly. "He deserves better than this."
Matsumoto nodded and burst into fresh tears by the woman's generosity. Finally, the rain fell around them, and the world began to mourn for a child who had lived and died within its cruel grey clutches.
If only the world had cared before, Matsumoto thought to herself. If only Momo had survived, if only the forgiveness hadn't come too late…
Would you still be alive, Toushiro?
For just a moment, his soul felt less melancholy amidst the flame and sulfur down below, and he regained the barest hints of his strength. Vision returned to him, just enough to make out the light above him. He stared in shock, unused to anything so bright or beautiful so close to him after spending so long – eternity – looking up at the glittering stars and hearing Momo's faint laugh soothe his aching soul. She was happy and he was suffering fair punishment for what he had done. This was the way things were supposed to be.
So what was happening now?
The light solidified before him, taking the shape of a kindly-looking man with a gentle gaze and strong hands. This man knelt in the fire next to him, his white robe refusing to burn despite the inferno raging about them. Toushiro looked into the man's eyes and saw everyone he'd ever cared about reflected there.
Momo, Rangiku, and Rangiku's murdered boyfriend – Gin Ichimaru. Even his poor grandmother, who had died of tuberculosis six months before the Agency had found him starving in the streets.
Everyone, all looking at him with sad smiles and gentle faces.
He found himself crying without even realizing it. He knew they were all living among the stars now, all happy and safe and well in among the light. But seeing their faces again made him crave to see them again, made the tears pour down his face in rapidly evaporating streams. But he deserved his fate. He had killed himself, killed dozens of others.
The mysterious man in white – he seemed fatherly, Toushiro noted blearily – reached out and lifted him from the greedy fire, freed his thin wrists and ankles from the burning chains which weighted him down. Then he simply held the young man's soul and listened to him cry. The former assassin clung to the kind man, sobbing away his sorrows in a rain of broken tears. And slowly, he began to heal, the wounds of scarlet crime and darkness staining him melting away.
"You have suffered enough." A gentle voice told him softly. He looked up; saw a compassionate, loving gaze directed down at him. One sure, reassuring hand came up to tilt his chin into a more appropriate angle. "Let me take your burdens from you."
Toushiro's lower lip trembled, but he managed to pull himself together long enough to answer the man.
"Why?" he whispered. "This is what I deserve. I knew that even when I was alive, even as I pressed the barrel of the gun to my head. I've done too much wrong."
The unfamiliar man smiled in heartfelt understanding and pulled the young man close to him, wrapping the young soul protectively in his arms.
"I know." He said. "But you regretted your actions. You accepted your punishment. And you have suffered in silence for all your life. So even though you deserve this, I will set you free."
Toushiro's breathing – if it could still be called breathing, after death – hitched in shock and startled astonishment.
"But why?" he asked, voice trembling now. "I don't deserve to be spared!"
The man laughed softly.
"No. You don't. But you shall be shown mercy nonetheless." He said, a twinkle in his eye. "Because you feel true sorrow for your actions, you are forgiven. You asked for forgiveness before you took your own life, did you not?"
Emerald eyes widened in shock, mouth falling open into an almost-perfect circle, and Toushiro began shaking, hands trembling in disbelief. The elder man smiled gently at him, knowing that the young soul cradled safely in his arms had understood. And the young man began to cry again, this time more out of gratitude rather than sorrow.
For perhaps the first time, Toushiro Hitsugaya truly felt the love and kindness of another.
The man whistled, and two young people with wings flew across the void in the heavens towards the raging fire. They were wearing identical expressions of benevolent compassion and they took the boy's soul with gossamer tenderness, carrying him away from the suffering he had so long endured. He felt his spirit melt, dissolving into the stars bit by bit. And peace enshrouded the gentle soul, leaving him clean and pure, freed from the grief which had cloaked him for so long.
The winged young people let him go amongst the stars.
"Toushiro! Toushiro, you came!"
"…I was shown mercy. Otherwise I would not be here."
"It's alright, Toushiro. You're here now. That's all that matters. Now come on, Rangiku and Gin are waiting for us. Waiting for you, really."
"Then let's go. I shouldn't keep anyone waiting any longer."
"At least you're finally showing sense! Tag, you're it!"
"O-Oi, Momo! Get back here!"
Cracked and burnt, the empty shell of what was once green and growing and beautiful drifted through the void enveloping her. She could no longer torment those on her surface. Death had come on silent wings. And judgment had been passed. She would no longer give life. She would no longer torment her inhabitants. And their tombs would lie undisturbed on her surface from thence on.
The souls she had troubled are at peace.
Far away, a young man laughs for the first time in a thousand years, and the girl by his side dances away with him, leading him on paths of joy and light. He is new to these starlit trails, but with his loved ones to guide him and the weight of his guilt cleansed from his soul, he is healed from the suffering of his life.
He is whole again.