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His knees have gone weak, but he refuses to let himself fall.
His eyes have gone wide, but surely – surely – what they see is fabrication. Imagination. A spectre of the past. A ghost.
His jaw has gone slack, and he can barely whisper, “Byakuya…? Who…is that…?”
The boy descended from the sky like some great, bold beacon, all spiky hair and wide, loud mouth, and massive, blazing reiatsu… and, gods… even the way Rukia looked at him, spoke to him… was the same…
That’s why his limbs and voice have been jolted into immobility…
That’s why he can only stand stock-still and stare as their weapons, one cool and controlled like the whisper of a springtime wind, one enormous and wild and strong and reckless but brave, so brave, clash and gleam beneath the startling sunlight…
That’s why he maintains what he hopes looks like only a façade of that frozenness, of that stupor, of that sheer, sheer shock, when another spectre, another ghost, this one in the lithe shape of Yoruichi-san, throws herself between the boy and Byakuya-kun’s Senbonzakura…
That’s why, when the boy collapses, body rendered limp by Yoruichi-san's deft hand, he meets those glinting, catlike eyes, and only says, “You’re… trying to save him…”
That’s why, after, he raises his voice to Byakuya-kun – though, it’s Kuchiki-taichō, now, isn’t it? Even now, after these fifty-odd years, that still seems so strange…
And that’s why he lets the boy go.
Once had been enough, more than enough – once, when that twisted creature shattered his zanpakutō, and ripped out his humanity, and wrenched the honesty from his smile, leaving only raw, gaping, gawping malice in its place.
Twice had been agony – twice, when he watched, chest burning with more than just sickness, as Rukia plunged her blade deep into the heart of a man she loved.
Thrice?
No.
There will be no thrice.
Even if this boy someone else – even if this boy is only a ghost – Jūshirō can’t bear to see him die a third time.