ââŠâ
Brokenâfunny he should say that, and funnier still how the absence of human emotion is something Ichigo thinks makes him incomplete. Is his blade not whole? Is his steel not unblemished, his edge no longer sharp? Is he suddenly a figure transcended, a weapon made god because he has been so fortunately blessed with the body of a man?
âOi, oiâI was only teasing you. Thereâs no need to go and make a face like that.â
Even if your brothers diedâso what? (What meaning would that hold to things like us?)
Donât forget, donât forget, donât forget; you and I, and all the rest, tooâwe are not human, no matter how our hearts beat.
We are steel.
Quiet he remains in the face of Tsurumaruâs jest, each word acting as sharp thorns tearing into a quiet subconscious. He is made of the same fires that forged Atsu and Yagen, and the Toushirou name defines them. They are family in that way, and what Ichigo Hitofuri knows of family is this: they care.
âBut I am not called Ichigo Toushirou. I am Ichigo Hitofuri. Once in a lifetime, and the first & last of my kind.âÂ
And he does not care.
A soft breath leaves betwixt winter-chilled lips. A sigh, maybe. âThen, do you think me as cruel?â
Desperate is his tone; soft is his voice. Cruelty makes it easier to accept numbness.













