Title: Dried Persimmons
Day/Theme: December 6: "Of force and friction"
Series: Bleach
Character/Pairing: Rangiku, Gin
A/N: Set post-Aizen arc. It's been a while since I've forayed into this fandom (written anything at all) and I can't quite say I hate the results. The disjointed writing is on purpose, by the way.
Summary: He is elusive, a phantom, footsteps in the sand, constantly being washed away. Like snow in the spring, vanishing, no traces left.
...
...
She can't control him. Never could, never wanted to, but it is still something she doesn't like to face.
(Couldn't, didn't, with every word she speaks, she has to pause and correct the tenses. Is to was, now to then, lives to died.)
He is-was-elusive, disappearing like a phantom into the night. Like footsteps in the sand, constantly being washed away.
(Like snow in the spring, vanishing, no traces left.)
Even now, even after the fact, she still doesn't understand. Not fully, not in the way she wants to. Each movement, each smile, each word, what did they mean? When did he plan to betray Aizen? Towards the end, when his control became chaotic, or at the beginning, before it all started?
And there isn't even a ghost of a whisper to answer these plaguing doubts.
Dried persimmon burst in her mouth and she gives a wry smile. He doesn't have a grave or an urn or anything for her to stand and stare at. To touch and trace and wearily close her eyes at.
It fits him. Nothing could ever tie him down. Not even her-but, when she remembers those last words, those last fleeting thoughts, maybe she is the one who tied him down in the end. Maybe she is the one who trapped him in a cage.
She tries not to think too much of it, focusing on the small fruit she rolls in her hand. Tries not to think of anything. Her thoughts have been scattered lately, drifting from point to point, as though trying to mimic his movements.
It'll be a day, a week-a short (too short) period of time before she can close this chapter and take her next step. There are other matters, there always are, and she allows herself this brief moment to drown.
Perhaps, she will never understand him. That, though, is just fine.
She has her dried persimmons and her birthday and those footsteps in the snow and it will have to be enough.