A/N: GET. HELP. IF. THIS. HAPPENS. TO. YOU. Seriously. Even if you think you don't need help. Please.

Anyhow. My poll is still up...Power of Seven is still in progress. With a lovely beta, too.

It hurts. Oh, sweet winter, it hurts. He lies on his side, coughing weakly, liquid fire flooding his body from the mangled flesh of his legs and torso, the glint of stained white bone clearly poking through his skin. The sky is grey with nightfall and blood loss and pain, the ringing emptiness in his ears accompanied by bursts of blinding light and dark alike. He's barely aware of his desolate surroundings, but the ground is cold beneath his burning body and he knows that he's helpless from the moment he starts shivering.

He knew that when the ground exploded beneath his feet, but really, he's just grateful his legs are still attached to his body.

Shouting echoes faintly in his ears, stars fading in and out far above his glazed emerald eyes, and the sounds of clashing metal ripple over his head. He draws a gurgling breath, the shrapnel sending fire through his soul, but he no longer has the strength to scream. Instead, he's left drifting, too weak to cry out, too far gone to realize that help has come. Everything is vague and unclear, but he sees flashing color spiral above him, light reflecting into his vacant gaze.

There's a warm hand on his throat then, gently pressing into his carotid artery as someone tries to locate the butterfly beneath his skin there. He struggles to focus, the staggering throb of his injuries shattering his conscious mind. And then someone touches him - where, precisely, he's not sure, because his lower body is twisted and perforated by shrapnel and all he's aware of is pain - and he finds the strength to cry out. It's an animal's scream, raw and feral, a plea for no more, no more, no more.

Something is pressed over his mouth and nose, and there's a slight pinch in one broken arm, hands gently holding him against the earth. Breathing becomes easier, but it also brings him closer to full consciousness, and he gasps as the fire burns brighter in his body, the pain ravaging him more thoroughly. Lucidity slips away, until all he can hear is the sound of his own breathless screaming and the soft sobbing of a woman nearby.

Slowly, everything starts to fade.

He wakes to white, white, white, and the blinding silver of metal. He's stiff with starchy fabric wrapped tightly around his whole body, with solid casts made of rocky plaster or plastic. Breathing hurts - it's a thankless chore, and he wants to stop, but he can't because there's a mask on his face and a tube in his throat, and he's not in control of his own body anymore. The steady beep beep beep by his bed is sterile with uncaring precision, never failing to metronome the crescendo of his pain. It hurts even more because he cannot move, cannot speak, cannot even cry out the agony he's in. Intravenous lines lead into his arms, which are relatively unscathed considering that he's practically in a cast from the waist down, and he watches the bleary dripping of saline and medications into his bloodstream.

A tear slides down his cheek as the fire in his blood screams, and he can feel his vision blurring. Nausea rises in the pit of his stomach, and the beeping blurs into erratic staccato. The ventilator fights to keep his breathing rhythmic, but he can feel himself slipping, shutting down. Vaguely, through the fog of burning pain, he realizes that he's cold. So very cold.

It's frightening.

He must black out, because when he comes to there are people all around his bed, healing kido glowing in their hands, fear in their eyes. Unohana leans over him, warmth in the calming green light shining from her palms, her deep blue eyes gently examining him. Then she retreats a little bit and shakes her head. Her lips move, but his ears and head are filled with cotton, and he can't understand the words.

He remembers one, though, and later he - or, more appropriately, his friends - will curse the day he first heard that word.

Oxycodone.

It's powerful. Very powerful. He feels peaceful and painless, and though he's lightheaded and slightly sleepy he feels cheerful. He's completely relaxed, staring contentedly up at the blank ceiling, and there a distinct sense of safety in the thin hospital blankets now. Unohana isn't letting him move around, but while that would normally bother him, he's too content to care. There's something addictive about lying peacefully in bed, while halcyon-golden light warms the entire room with gentle sunshine, and he's tired anyway. Ukitake comes in to speak with him about the attack once he's stable enough to breathe on his own, but whatever information Hitsugaya may have once had on the subject is mired in the memories smeared across the inside of his skull. All he knows is that, somehow, the Arrancar had planted a land mine, and that he was lucky enough to escape the blast in one piece - mostly. He was swiss cheese from the chest down for a while, but Unohana can fix that. Being torn in half is another matter.

He drifts in and out of full consciousness for the next few weeks, the strong painkillers doing their job well enough to let him sleep. Unohana comes in to work on his shattered legs and shrapnel-ridden body every day, steadily healing him until one day he's well enough to stand and go home. Matsumoto comes to pick him up and help him hobble through the streets of Seireitei on crutches, nonplussed by his benign slowness. He can't help feeling pleasant though, not when the painkillers in the bottle Unohana has given him work well enough to let him go home. She's concerned by his behavior for some reason, but he can't see why she's worried.

He hasn't been this calm - this relaxed - since he watched clouds with his Granny before Hyourinmaru called him home.

The effect lessens after a while. Slowly he realizes that he's still hurting, that the anxiety is getting too difficult to bear. He's restless and agitated, but he doesn't know why and it bothers him. And he's sleeping less, staring up at his ceiling awake, mind buzzing. It's uncomfortable and painful and the peaceful lethargy is gone, and he wants it back. So, even though he knows Unohana has told him to take only one pill, he takes two, and washes it down with a swirl of weak sake.

It hits like a freight train.

He lies on his bed, smiling peacefully, every ounce of tension gone from his system. His wounds - mostly healed now, but still aching weakly - are utterly forgotten, whatever pain they caused him stifled by the weightless, cheerful contentment that presses through his mind. It doesn't occur to him until much later that he'd probably gotten high for the first time in his life. But when he comes down, he falls hard. He can barely stand, his nerves on fire, his legs screaming at him, and chills wrack his body, dragging at his physical state until it's all he can do to lie curled on his side and whimper.

He vomits, sweaty and feverish, more times than he can count before he reaches for the bottle again.

And like magic, the pain disappears. He doesn't think anything of it.

Three months in, Unohana stops prescribing the painkillers he's come to rely on. He panics, craving the feeling of relaxed calmness that the Oxycodone grants him, and though he nods agreeably when Unohana orders him to report any withdrawal symptoms, the sinking feeling in his stomach only grows. It's the first time he's truly aware of how much he needs this pill, and it scares him. It scares him badly enough that he bites his lip, sets Hyourinmaru's scolding aside, and slips unseen into Unohana's storehouses.

He never gets to that first high again, though not for lack of trying. Two pills become three. Then five. Finally, he abandons the slow-release medication he's familiar with and head straight for the instant-release pills. They're stronger, and the effects are more immediate, but after another six months even taking five of these is barely keeping him functional.

He's hunched over the bathroom sink, green eyes wide in disbelief at his own actions, white hair limp on his forehead, when he downs eight, hoping for just a brief release from the intolerable pain sensitivity and the all-consuming nausea which has caused him to lose fifteen pounds over the past year. He doesn't want to feel cold or feverish with sweat. He wants to sleep peacefully, like he did before all this happened, before Unohanan had to reconstruct his legs and seal the perforations in his body with healing kido. Before he'd had seventy-nine piece of shrapnel removed from his abdomen and chest over the course of three sixteen-hour surgeries.

So he knocks those eight little pills back and waits.

Ichigo finds him.

Orange hair bobs curiously as the substitute shinigami, now twenty-five and a respected doctor like his father, knocks on the doorframe again, puzzling over the lack of response. Ordinarily Toushiro wouldn't keep a guest waiting, and Ichigo knows he's home - there's fresh traces of the frosty reiatsu all over the steps. So after the fifth knock Ichigo merely rolls his eyes and opens the unlocked door.

That is what first sets the alarm bells ringing inside the young doctor's head, but the light is on in the kitchen so he checks there first. It's deserted, and the house is eerily silent. A cold breeze flutters down the stairs, and Ichigo glances up them cautiously. He calls Toushiro's name. There's no answer. But the bathroom light is still on, its warm glow spilling from behind the closed door.

Suspicion strikes fear into his heart, and he bolts up the stairs, throwing his whole weight against the door. It bursts open easily, revealing a scattering of round white tablets on the tiled floor, a plastic bottle with the word Oxycodone on its label lying on its side, the cap on the counter. Toushiro is on his side as well, limp and lifeless on the cold bathroom floor, the bright emerald of his eyes glazed into dull jade. There's no smile on his pale face, only a yearning, distant stare, as if he'd been waiting for something that never came.

Ichigo howls and drops to his knees, knowing before his hands even move that there's no pulse, no breath left in this cold husk pretending to be Hitsugaya Toushiro. The body in his arms is an empty shell. But Ichigo tries anyway, clasps his hands together over the boy's sternum and compresses, ignoring the tears starting to run down his tan face. He's screaming, screaming for the young man he loves as a brother, as a dear friend to come back, his reiatsu spiking wildly in distress. There's no response. By the time help arrives in the form of a disheveled Unohana and several of the other captains, Ichigo has given up.

They watch as their savior clutches the small body in his arms and gently closes the boy's eyes.

Captain Hitsugaya Toushiro, age 143, died in his home on Tuesday, November 30th at 6:17pm of an opiate overdose. He is survived by his grandmother and elder sister, Lieutenant Hinamori Momo, who will honor his memory with a funeral service on December 5th, at 4:00pm in the Tenth Division Cemetery. A prodigy of immeasurable talent, Hitsugaya was renowned for his skill and uncanny wisdom. He possessed a kind, understanding heart and a steadfast, loyal soul, and will be dearly missed by his friends and colleagues. His family and friends ask that, in lieu of flowers, donations be sent to the Fourth Division's addiction treatment programs.

A/N: Review?