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01 March 2008 @ 06:36 pm
Catcher & Rye  
Title: Catcher & Rye
Pairing: Gin x Rangiku
Fandom: Bleach
Genre: General, Angst
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 516

Catcher & Rye

…puns are written with the presumption of being clever…
and always fail—inevitably

He was like a shadow, a sneak, a haunting feeling that ebbed and ached and never faded away. And looked back at her through glassy eyes, febrile and knowing: come on, catch me.

—Catch me, catch me if you can.

As if daring, as if saying she can’t.

And so, when she felt his slippery robes fall through her fingers (like raw silk threads wafting down) there was no surprise. Unavoidable, unquestionable, an illusion cast in wispy boulders.


She drank the wine, drowned her throat, not for the taste. Because wine tasted terrible, caustic, virulent like the blackest plague. The acid swished into her mouth and pushed her esophagus shut till she’s got this sickening, choking feeling that kept on staying.

And there’s this image blaring back too, a face suspended in air and smiling venomously at her. Sweet, dire, and inviting. A snake.

Ready to eat.


That was then, and this is now.

And that was when they were young:

When he did not leave her for the dead’s dead to pick and scavenge and gave her sustenance (substance). And for the longest time, she’s thinking that he’s some unnatural god she must catch. Before he went.

Before he’s vanished into thin air.

And she’s so young, and so was he (but he’s old too, like a little old-man).

That was when he said they would become shinigami.

And so they did, thrown into the out-there world, uncaged. Unwanted.

That was when they first parted.


“You can’t kill me,” he said.

Matsumoto stopped, for some strange reason, and knew he was right. Always right. Delusory, sophistic—that was him.

She dropped the sword, and down he went (into the rabbit hole below)

—Where Aizen was, where damn Aizen stood with awaiting arms and sneer.


Hitsugaya was sick. And Matsumoto couldn’t sleep, tried to make things more comfortable for him, almost petted him like a little boy (the child he really, truly was).

But her hand stopped in midair, as she was reaching for his soft, white hair, and thought of Gin.

And when they first slept together. The frustration and shit-scared, gutted feeling she got creeping over her arms and entwining ‘round her torso. Funny, thinking of him now (that now)

—When he’d long forgotten her.



Stupid, worthless word.

What was perfection but a name? …That but by any other name.

“There’s this idea, see, that Aizen—”

Bloated and stuffed, like popped wheat or rye. How she felt, what she did, made no difference anymore. Not when The End Was Finally Close. And she could nearly tug the threads of his white, tattered robes.

Not when she saw him directly across, not when this wasn’t a dream.

But he’s still laughing, and she’s still thinking she could defeat him in a match.

Like before, when he used to let her win.

Not this time, Ran-chan. Not when win meant live.

The blade fell, chipped off its tip—and made large gashes into the earth.