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Feeling nothing is not a new sensation to her; Rukia thinks its oddly comforting in its familiarity.
She can’t remember the last time she truly felt it – this disconnect, this emptiness – it's colder than she’s used to, but maybe it’s because she’s still under the impression that there’s still something to feel at all.
(There’s nothing.
There’s nothing at all, she tells herself, even though, when she blinks, she can see it: A mist all around her – she can hear it – as it hits the pavement in applause – she can almost feel it – the sticky wetness as soaks through her borrowed clothes and cools her borrowed body.
The rain.
Ichigo’s fury, given volume, given strength, given relief in the storm that catches the glint of his sword as the skies tear itself open in his anguish, and all she can do is weather it.
This is his fight. This is his. She won’t take it from him. She won’t take her faith from him.
The rain.
Kaien slumped in her arms, the torrent around them only weighing them both heavier and heavier, setting her soul to sink with it, her skin is tacky with his blood –
The rain.
Ichigo blinks almost languidly through the tears – of sky, of eye – frustrated, angry. His jaw is clenched, his teeth stained red, he chokes on her name –
And she can’t –
She’s taken enough from him.
It’s always the rain.)
When she cracks her eyes open, hazy and floaty, untethered and alien in her own skin, all she sees is a halo of gold blurring her vision.
Rukia can’t tell if the sun is setting or rising.
Time is inconsequential here.
Everything is inconsequential here.
She doesn’t know if it’s a normal train of thought to have, awaiting execution as she is. She thinks she should probably be sadder.
But she’s not. Not really.
It's ironic to think that she’s been waiting her whole life to die. Not because her life has been hard, or lonely, or empty. But because she can’t imagine any other conclusion, any other destination this could take. Wake, exist, sleep; repeat. It’s been like that for so long, she’d hazard to say, if asked (though no one will), that she’s relieved she’s finally seeing an end to it.
But then, she’d be lying, wouldn’t she?
If she’d experienced a life entirely like this, Rukia doesn’t think she’d even notice if she’d been sentenced to die. The fact remains, however: that she hasn’t.
She isn’t some empty shell, some puppet to be ordered around, just another piece of cannon fodder for war.
She’s…she’s a person.
She hates the rain. She loves horror manga. Her favorite thing in the world is Chappy. She enjoys her tea with honey. She likes to sit on the roof and tell the stars her secrets. And she – she had people who cared about her, once.
They regretted it, of course.
Every last one.
She’s either gotten them killed, or disgraced them, or…abandoned them herself.
(Rukia shuts her eyes tightly at that, on the memory of Ichigo looking up at her, telling her don’t go, don’t go, don’t –)
She regretted it too if that’s any consolation to the grand scheme of things. But she doubts that it is – a consolation that is – Rukia’s never been an important person to anyone.
The walls around her glow golden – the sun is rising then, she thinks, turning her head to watch the shadows in a vague sense of movement, taking her back without any real notice to a similar day, an ordinary day:
The classroom was empty – it was so early, Rukia recalled – Ichigo was lying on his desk, head cushioned on his arms.
The walls looked golden; the shadows moved the same –
She’d insisted – You need the practice. You’re so slow, faster! Your footwork is awful, no, no, don’t swing like that, you’ll hurt yourself, you’ll – and they’d come to school early because she had classroom duty: windows to open, plants to water, textbooks to distribute; and she’d told him to rest then, if he was going with her – You may be a substitute but you’re not like me. I’ll be fine. I have work to do. Sleep, I can –
And then Tatsuki had come in.
Rukia had waved to her earlier when she and Ichigo had carried the textbooks in from a hallway closet – Fool, I can carry some books, you don’t need to – Tatsuki had been on the track field – Oi, Ichigo, why can’t you be that dedicated to your training? – and now, she supposes, with school about to start and classmates starting to trickle in, Tatsuki is here to set up for the day too and –
“You know, you’re good for him.”
“Eh?”
Nudging her chin at Ichigo, head still on the table, face hidden in his arms. “He was a useless kid, a total mama’s boy. And then when she died…well…I think he did a little too. I don’t think he’s ever voluntarily done anything since.”
Rukia hadn’t known what to say to that, so she hadn’t said anything.
Tatsuki, however, seemed to understand things better than she did, and declared with a happy sort of sigh, “He seems better now.” And with a knowing look and a smile, she concluded again, “You’re good for him.”
If Tatsuki had known how Rukia had come into his life, she doubted she’d still think so. And even if she did, Rukia doubts Ichigo would share the sentiment.
She hopes that for all the talk she’s heard about stopping his rain that it isn’t true – that the rain isn’t real, that it won’t come back for him now that she’s gone.
And that if it is true – if it is true, then she hopes that wherever Ichigo is, selfish as it is, that he’ll forgive her for it – for leaving, for making the rain stop at all.
Being a Shinigami, having Kaien in her life, having a purpose; it was like the sun had come out. Like the clouds had parted. Like for one day, the rain had stopped. But when Kaien had died, when her purpose had become tainted, when being a Shinigami meant having to look away from the things she couldn’t stop, the rain seemed to pour harder in retribution for that one day out in the sun.
Here in this tower where there is nothing and no one, it becomes easier to accept death when you’ve long forgotten how to live, when the potency of being alive – the joy, the anger, the loss, the warmth – is dulled – it’s easier to let go.
Rukia wants it to be easy, and on some days, it feels like it is.
But then something will happen – a memory will come – a sensation of history unraveling before her very eyes as the cold settles in, and instead of just noticing it, like a belated realization, Ichigo will appear like a ghost to make it all the colder:
“Idiot, where’s your jacket?”
“I’m going to use yours.”
He scoffed. “Says who?”
“Says me,” she’d sniffed. “It’s gentlemanly to offer, you know.”
“And what makes you think I’m a gentleman?” She paused to openly consider him, making him scowl, and bark, “What?”
“No, you’re right. I’ll just ask Keigo.”
“The hell you will!”
He’d huffily given her his school jacket to wear during morning break, forgotten to get it back from her by the time they had to go back to class and hadn’t made any move to take it back from her at all for the rest of the day.
It hadn’t been all that cold then, but remembering it makes her shiver, makes her curl in tighter around a knot in her stomach as if she could pull that jacket around her and hide beneath it.
She’ll get used to being without it.
Some days, she thinks she has.
“You’re bleeding,” he’d said once with a frown, brows tilted in a worry she’s seen displayed – only for his sisters, in a begrudging sort of way towards his friends, his father – and demands in a strange voice, “Why didn’t you tell me you were hurt?”
It had baffled her. The cut was ugly, yes. But it wasn’t fatal. It wasn’t important, “It’ll heal – I’m used to it.”
“That doesn’t,” Ichigo huffed out a breath, “that doesn’t mean you deal with it, you idiot, we can take care of it. C’mere, I’ll clean it.”
She’d squirmed away at the sensation, giving Ichigo shit for his technique in that too, just because she could – if only to make that frown go away; if only to lighten the shadow over his eyes. It had been a lot of work to care for other people - about them and their feelings, to feel in general.
Rukia thinks she’ll miss it anyway.
But those feelings won’t be there for much longer.
It’ll be over soon, and Ichigo – Ichigo will live, and he’ll remember what it feels like not to be soaked to the bone, heavy with burdens and regrets and ghosts whose souls he can’t purify. Rukia hopes he’ll get to actually feel the sun as more than a halo in his vision.
Rukia hopes he enjoys it.
One of them should get to.
At the thought, her cheek feels wet and her fingertips come away with a tear she can’t account for, Stupid girl, she scolds, what are you crying for?
Me, a small part of her answers, me.
Renji and Byakuya have already left her, and she’s left Ichigo behind as well.
There’s no one to mourn her; she should get to do it for herself.
Before she’s lifted like an offering to the Sōkyoku, they ask her if she has any last requests to which she replies that she doesn’t.
Despite everything, she’s lived a good life and she’s…she’s grateful: To the people she's met, the small family she's had, the few friends she was able not to hurt - to Ichigo.
When Kikoo is released, the Halberd’s flames burn brighter than any star, and Rukia closes her eyes against her own traitorous tears, and hopes despite the heat of the phoenix, that she’ll get to feel the sun one last time...
“Yo.”