Disclaimer: I don't own Bleach.
The first time he killed a man, he came to her for comfort.
He'd killed with a smile on his face, reassuring the man he wanted to destroy more than any other that it was nothing, that he'd felt no remorse at all at ending the life of a man who had done nothing wrong, except get in the way of a plan so twisted even he struggled to get his head around it sometimes.
When he'd sought her out, sneaking into her room in the academy late at night, he'd cried his eyes out, mourning for his victim, the victim of misfortune and a sole man's ambition. He'd cried for himself, realising just how deep he would have to go to save her from something she didn't even know existed. Finally, he'd cried for her, and the lies he would have to recite just to keep her safe in this world of deceit and danger.
She hadn't asked any questions. That was what he had always loved about her. For all her nagging – where did you go? Why didn't you tell me you were leaving? – she never asked if she knew he couldn't answer. Looking back now, he wonders if she saw through his shattered mask that night, saw what he'd done and why he'd done it. It wasn't that she could always read him, or something sappy like that. His mask was perfect and sometimes it even fooled him. But she knew it was a mask.
Maybe she'd known, even before he had, that he would never have the pleasure of a laid-back life. He'd never be able to sit in peace, just enjoying the moment and not having to worry about the future, or regret the past.
He hadn't even tried as he rose through the ranks, hailed as a prodigy and sought after by everyone with a hidden agenda. Espionage, leadership, subordination. He was expected to fulfil all those roles simultaneously. It wasn't beyond him. He could do it – he did do it – but that was the limit of even his capabilities. Something else had to suffer for him to be able to focus on his goal, and his relationship with her was the victim.
When he's alone, he cries for that, too. It's not the same as being held close to her chest, silence surrounding him save for his own sobs, while she kept him company in a silent vigil. Now he has no-one to look out for him, no-one to keep guard while he collapses under the strain of his cursed life.
He can never blame her, though. It might all be for her – because she was hurt, her innocence stripped without her ever realising – but it was his choice to avenge her. He was the one that had dedicated a hundred years to finding the weaknesses of the man he hated like no other. He would never blame her for the love that drove him. Purity in the midst of the worst kind of darkness, carving a place for herself in the hearts of all who met her.
His heart, most of all. No-one else loved her as much as he did. They might look at her, find her beautiful – and she was, even when they were young – but they didn't know her. How many of them had cried in her arms? Since this war had begun, probably too many. How many of them had confessed their love to her, a thing he had never dared do? Probably too many.
But how many had thrown away any chance of happiness, or redemption? How many of them had sacrificed everything they had to offer, just so she would never have to cry?
Just him.
At least, that was what he hoped. Not that he could ever claim credit for that, or use it as a way to finally, finally, be able to love her, and ask for her love back. He had done so much for her, so much that she could never know, but he didn't deserve her. Then again, he did not think anyone deserved her. She was too perfect to be tainted by anyone.
He had never considered that he might fail. That the stone, finally in his hands after far too long, would still return to its master, the devil trying to become a god. That he would die, hearing the worst sound that he could ever have been cursed with.
He'd been a toy in the hands of fate, working so hard but always doomed to fail. He wished that he'd realised that sooner. Would he have taken the path he did? Or would he have been able to enjoy his time with her instead, ignoring the offers of power that were merely empty words and he'd always known that?
Probably not. He was too dedicated to ever consider giving up. His fate was always to die a traitor, cursed by the sound of his final failure. So you never have to cry, he had promised.
The first time he killed a man, he sought her out and cried into her chest for hours, held in the comforting silence of the girl he loved.
The last time he killed a man, she, no longer a girl but a strong woman, sought him out, holding him in her arms and crying as he slipped away from her. Crying tears that were never meant to fall.
I always like to think that Gin was more delicate than he let on.
Thanks for reading!
Tsari