Disclaimer: I don't own Bleach :')
Shatter
MatsuGin
In the moments before his eyes close - closed and slitted are not the same thing. Not even close - Gin remembers things.
Looking into Rangiku's eyes he sees their tragic tale coming to an end, silenced by a hundred bastards who are not just Aizen, and not just Yamamoto, but every person who has ever done her wrong. Every demon he couldn't slay, and for that while before this end - shattering her world, her bones, her trust and securities - he becomes one of them. It's hard not to hate himself; but she sees him now for all the things he could have been. He knows by the look in her eyes, that even if he does, she no longer can.
There is something to be said for Matsumoto Rangiku that every other person in the world lacks. Gin thinks this is probably what he'll miss most. She is a soldier first, a lover second; and behind the ice of her blue eyes there are one thousand broken mirrors, each representing a memory, many he has been painted in. He is the freak child prodigy with a thirst for blood, running bony fingers through silken blond hair at a quarter past midnight while they discuss a future he doesn't care for, but she is eager to see.
"How much do you drink now Rangiku?" He asks, running the same bony fingers over her face. Her cheek is moist and maybe just a little more hollow than he remembers it being, but her eyes are always clear, even when they shatter. She chuckles and sobs as one and grasps his hand, holding it in place.
"A lot." She states, and drops his hand again. "I've got a reputation to uphold, even when you're not around."
"'Course."
Rangiku is not a dependent damsel. Gin would hate her if she were. Rangiku is a suit of armor housing one beating heart between lead veins and diamond innards.
Gin isn't sure how to feel about breaking it - that one fragile organ. The only one she's ever had. That's what will happen - he knows - in a couple of seconds. He can't breathe anymore, the air he takes in isn't holding, it's leaking into his skin, but not going anywhere. He can feel it coming on. It hurts but he doesn't say it. She knows, she's always known.
"I'm glad I got ta say I'm sorry." He says. He can hear it burst then - that heart - can almost feel the blood splatter against her lungs, and run through the cavity of her chest. It is the last thing painted in his eyelids.
I'm
going to stop
pretending
that I
didn't break
your heart.
Depressing? A little, but well… inspiration hit.
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