#[ verse: muken ] you said i killed you so haunt me & drive me mad; only do not leave me in the abyss where i cannot find you.

[keikakudori]

◎ "What did ya want....really? You failed, ya lost everything. But you act like you're fine with it. As if you never even wanted the one thing you actually seemed to care about."

❝ I wanted what all idealists with power want: to change the way of the world. I wished to remake the structure of the Seireitei for, no matter what the Shinigami believe, it is no paradise. But why should I want it now? I lost the reason why I ever desired to change things in the first place; I lost the drive and motivation on the day when my own hubris cost me everything; what good is a Pyrrhic victory when all that drove you is no longer within your reach? What else am I supposed to be, other than forcing myself to accept what has happened? CAN YOU TELL ME THE ANSWER TO THAT, LITTLE ARRANCAR? I IMAGINE NOT. ❞

[keikakudori]

             THE SUN EVER REMAINED THE SUN, NO MATTER THAT IT HAD BEEN TUCKED AWAY INTO THE EARTH IN THEIR ATTEMPT TO BURY A BEING OF SUCH POWER --- for all that Aizen Sousuke remained bound here by hand and foot and kido seals so thick they were likely migraine-bright for anyone with any sensitivity for them, he was still dangerous enough to consume her in a flash of brilliant heat and leave nothing behind.

             Of course, there was no threat in the air right now where she was concerned and such sensations were ever impossible to miss. There was nothing more than a weary curiosity directed at her, a break in the monotony that was the dark of this place. He idly wondered who she'd strong-armed and deployed her assets against to be allowed down here. Likely not Yamamoto, stubborn old goat that he was.

             A break in the monotony for them to discuss the person whom had tied them together, though that thread was gone now, snapped and severed and what remained on his end was left to flail at empty air. Gone, gone, gone ----

             For a brief moment, the floor beneath her, the ceiling overhead, the walls nearby - they all shuddered like some vast beast as his eye closed for a second, his own body trembling. It was not a jarring motion, but the earth underfoot seemed almost to ripple. The air clouded, grew thick, and then cleared as he slumped that extra ounce more thoroughly in those bindings before his eye opened with the sound of her plea to focus on those features turned up to him with such earnest.

             Unseen and driven by his own emotions, his hands clenched beneath the bindings, a resistance towards speaking edging through his head and telling him he should remain silent. He was under no illusions that every word they exchanged would be carried back to the Onmitsukido, to Yamamoto, and to the Central 46. They would interrogate her, demand to know what he had said, and she would likely tell them. Part of him wondered if he should not answer at all, despite that pleading from Rangiku, if he should ultimately choose instead to indulge in the state of being mute.

             But then again, what more could they do to him? A storm was coming. A storm that itched in his bones, making him want to scratch at his skin. He could not have said what it contained, only that he was more than aware of it. But she stood there, a beam of sunlight in the darkness, and as he beheld her? Ah, yes, he could understand.

             ❝ You are like Helen of Troy, ❞ he murmured almost to himself. A non-sequitur of a remark before Aizen was blinking and then returning his focus properly to the conversation. The darkness and silence were doing nothing good for him; that brown pool had a near feverish gleam to it as he placed all of that attention and focus upon her. It was a weighty heat, a furnace blast; to be under his direct attention was not an easy thing and it would not be strange if she were left to stagger for even a moment in response to the sheer intensity of having the full weight of his focus on her.

             ❝ ... what occurred on that day was proof of my own hubris and lack of trust in Gin, ❞ he finally said, voice almost flat as if he were looking at what had happened from a distant standpoint. The pain was too fresh and his words were simple. ❝ I chose -... I believed that I would be able to subjugate the Hogyoku to my own will. ❞ They had tried to rip it out of him, more than once. He had screamed when they'd done so. He was sure of that. Metal that cracked bone and split flesh and it was red--- nothing but red----

             Another shudder seemed to ripple the ground, a minute tremor.

             ❝ ... I failed. By the time I realized what was happening, I could not have brought myself to care. I remember he -... the way I dealt with Koutotsu. It-- ❞ Fragments sliced his fingers as he sought to pick them up. ❝ I was prideful and I ignored it when he called to me in those moments. ❞

             A third shudder before he was shaking his head; whether it was for his own words or an attempt at futile denial for what he was saying now was not truly clear.

             ❝ Forgive me. I am ----... trying to collect my thoughts. What happened was that I had chosen to place the Hogyoku within my body without telling him. The tension between us had grown higher, stronger, sharper in those weeks leading up to what happened on that day. I had always known that Gin had the capability to kill me, to make such an effort, from nearly the time that we first met but I found it endearing. Fascinating, even. It was one of those things that I truly enjoyed about him; the sharpness of him, of that potential. I wished to see it grow and it bloomed the day he showed me his Bankai. ❞ Had she ever known that? That he had seen Gin's Bankai? How bright the memory of that day was for him.

             ❝ ... I was proud of him when he showed me but when he ... turned on me, it was ... not pride I felt then. And then he showed me far more than what he'd displayed on that day. ❞

             A wry hint of an amused smirk touched his mouth, tinged with pride. And yet, that powerful melancholy remained in evidence as well. Let those that would demand to know what he'd said take it as they willed. He had not given her much in terms of context and he knew far too well how close-mouthed Gin was - ... how close-mouthed he had been, rather. That sharp tongue had never been shy in calling him out. But the sharpness of that day was more than any thing he had felt since then.

             ❝ ... he killed me. He thieved the Hogyoku from my chest as I fell and left me there upon that street as I expired. And, had it not been for the Hogyoku, then we would not be having this conversation now. The bond between that thing and myself seemed as if it had been finalized as I changed. ❞ It was difficult to shrug when he was bound so, but one shoulder twitched with the effort, shifting just enough of his body that his bindings tightened across all of his limbs as a response to the motion. ❝ That connection between the Hogyoku and I was what saved me. ❞ The word was spat out like bitter fruit, a mouthful of poison that he sought to leave reeking on the floor. ❝ It brought me back from the pall of death and it ... chose to shunt me aside. I was left aware of what was occurring, but with no way to stop it. I tried. I tried to stop it. I tried to stop my arm and I fa--- I FAILED. ❞

             The rumble that rolled through the air and ground now was not something which could be so easily dismissed as the earth shrugging her shoulders and adjusting to a far more comfortable spot in her rest. It was him that trembled now, shaking the walls of Muken and sending streams of dirt and stone from the ceiling lost in shadow to cascade down about the cavern. How close that agony remained; how he remembered far too poignantly and clearly what it had felt like to see the blade puncturing through that body. Resistance from skin and bone before the zanpakutou had suddenly gained speed as it had pushed through that chest----

             It took effort to bring himself to a state of calmness once more, eye closed as he remained unaware of breath coming in quick, ragged gasps of air as he strained against those bonds that held him tight to the crucifix. Rangiku had come here seeking answers as to why he had cut down that man and he had spilled much in these past few moments. He was disjointed, no more that confident thing he had been on that cold winter day. How far he had fallen, truly Icarus come again and left bleeding and broken on the rocks of his own pride. His breath slowed gradually and his fingers turned into fists beneath the snug bonds that kept him held tight.

             Slowly, his head lifted and he was left to regard her once more, she who seemed golden as candle flame, warm and vibrant. Matsumoto Rangiku was a brilliance in the dark of this abyssal cavern and the earth seemed to settle as he calmed himself, though faint tremors still whispered through the ground underfoot from time to time and Aizen made himself swallow.

             ❝ --- yes, the why. ... the why is that the Hogyoku ----- it saw him as a threat. He was able to kill me, after all. He was the last person to ever make me bleed - more than bleed. He killed me with a touch and but a few simple words. Thus - he marked himself as a threat against my existence as the host and it ---... it- took steps to remedy that. I tried--... I tried to stop it. ... and I f---- ❞

             The word stopped short of fulfillment and Aizen's head dipped once more, gaze breaking away as his body sagged once more against those broad strips of material that held him aloft. He was no proud, cruel being now as he had been underneath the sun. He was merely broken divinity who was swathed in the shadows.

RANGIKU’S LACK OF FEAR IN THE FACE OF THIS MAN WAS A WEAKNESS, beyond any shadow of a doubt. She had been uncaring, and wholly unafraid as she faced him at the tail end of the Winter War —-- though the weight of Aizen’s spiritual pressure in tandem with her injuries had left her unable to do much of anything as he had proceeded with his line of questioning. 

The blonde thought back to the way he presented himself, then; a horror beyond recognition, so calculating and cruel… had he been in control of himself then?  Or did the shift come after striking his second in command down?  Either way, the intensity that burned in that exposed eye of his was something Rangiku knew she needed to be cautious of.  Aizen was dangerous, even if she was careless and bold enough to come at him for his previous transgressions.  There was too much at stake, now… Gin’s very fate rested upon her shoulders, weighing heavily on her heart, body, and soul.

This was no time to selfishly lash out.  Rangiku needed to stay in control —-- to bottle up those emotions of hers, as best she could.  

Aizen’s words left a foul taste in her mouth, but she would push through regardless.  A headache formed at her temples as she regarded him, her anger and grief still clouding much of her judgment. 

❝ As much as I’d love to go off on you, doing so won’t make much of a difference.  Neither of us can undo the past, as much as we’d like to…❞  her voice trailed off a bit, dropping to a low whisper as sadness temporarily surpassed everything else she was feeling. ❝ —--as much as I’d like to. ❞

Rangiku took a moment to consider what Aizen had said regarding the truth.  She had contradicted herself yet again, without realizing it…  A constant source of frustration in her life, this inability of hers to come out and say what she truly felt.  Living in a state of denial had been so easy… reality was much harder.  Attempting to make peace with it all was far beyond Rangiku’s current capabilities. 

She would have to meet Aizen halfway; to listen to his truths, and accept them for what they were.  There was no other way around it —-- not until Gin emerged from his coma, at least.  And even then, could she trust that he would tell her the truth?

Rangiku was so sick of the lies, the confusion…. all of it.

When she finally found her voice again, Rangiku cast her gaze up towards the other.  ❝ I know…. You’re right. I hate to admit it, but you’re right.  Just… the truth, then.  I’ll accept it, whatever you say about those moments. I just need to know what happened.  —-Please, Aizen, ❞ she all but pleaded with him, now.

[keikakudori]

◎ ❝ Was that really all it took to break you? You still live, yet you will let it all be for naught? ❞ ( bothering aizen in muken! )

Send a �� and a question and my muse must answer, even if it’s a secret.

❝ I certainly never expected the head of the Tsunayashiro clan to come see me. I would say that I'm honored, but you certainly wouldn't appreciate it. I am hardly broken, after all, but I certainly have plenty that can still be accomplished. After all, I did aid the Seireitei; surely you can appreciate that much. Besides, if I were to allow any little thing to stymie me, then I would never get anything done, now would I? Or do you truly prefer the notion that I would admit anything to you? One must learn to live with disappointment. ❞

[keikakudori]

'' It sure has been a while, Aizen-san ... ''

❝ I'm surprised that you aren't choking on the formality, Kyoraku. Was there another war you needed me to win for you to bring you all the way down here into the dark of Muken? Or is this a social call to offer me some tea? ❞

[keikakudori]

mini tag dump since tumblr seems to have forgotten all about my tags. ignore this.

aigin [ MY LUNGS ARE PUNCTURED—YOU TAKE MY BREATH AWAY ]

aishin [ I WANT MY HEART TO SHUDDER AT A TOUCH ]

ichimaru gin [ most honored poison of my heart ]

aizen sousuke [ the beaming sun itself; something dangerous and yet captivating ]

kaname tosen [ i knew a man once / who fought like he could cleanse the world with the blood on his knuckles ]

[ verse: blood war ] as I cannot be the hero let me be the monster and lesson them in fear in place of love.

[ verse: fukutaichou ] it is still too early to believe; what's truly frightening is the betrayal you don't see.

[ verse: soul king ] all the stars will fall from grace with your name engraved in the dust of their deaths.

[ verse: muken ] you said i killed you so haunt me & drive me mad; only do not leave me in the abyss where i cannot find you.

[ verse: vizard ] can you still feel the battles on my skin stitched across my back? am i rebuilding bone by fragile bone?

[ verse: wanderer ] i need something different. I don’t know what it is but I need something new.

[ verse: hueco mundo ] there is a massacre ready behind his eyes & war written on his body.

[ verse: sternritter ] when the silence of absence deepens

[keikakudori]

It was not the first time that he had seen Gin here with him, but usually he appeared grown, draped in white, draped in the ivory that had not washed him out as Aizen had almost thought would be the case. The first time he'd seen him draped entirely in the white, Aizen had found his breath catch in his throat, eyes bright and hot for a second. No, not washed out --- but beautiful, beautiful, an ethereal grace resounding in every smooth motion. He had complained to him, later, about that outermost layer, had ripped it open more than once in his impatience. It'd made Gin laugh.

Hadn't it?

Yet this did not differ from what had appeared to him before this instance, Aizen's weary stare seated upon the small form as his lips parted in a silent cry. A protest.

Yet how the eye that had remained shut for -- how long now? Hours? Years? Aeons---? It widened, growing huge in his face, providing a contrast to skin left pale from a lack of sunlight and sapping the tan he'd once sported. How it opened up and his mouth opened all the more, trying to speak even as Gin spoke almost to himself, spoke as if to demand answers. Answers that could not, would not, be given, not now, not from either of them. They were both unable to say it, yet he could speak, trying to explain because, gods ---

He had always answered Gin's questions, hadn't he---? Hadn't he?

❝ Gin, I--- ❞

Those words fell upon him like hammer blows and he twisted, as if trying to writhe away from the recrimination heaped into that small voice that was directed at him. Muken had done much against him, had broken him down, whittled away that pride and arrogance into nothing.

he was less than nothing----

Yet the one person who could ever hurl at him the accusations that were all true was equally the one person who had the power to hurt him more than any other soul. His mouth worked once, twice, a ragged noise almost like a SOB echoing in the dark as Aizen's head twisted against the back of the crucifix they kept him aloft upon, legs bound, arms outspread; all to ensure that he would not step from this darkness.

❝ No--- ❞ he breathed. ❝ No, I didn't---- I didn't---! I ne--- I never wanted--- this wasn't what I wanted! ❞

How Aizen tried to explain it.

❝ I never wanted you dead, Gin---! Please---! I never--- n-- never wanted that, never wanted----! ❞

But --- Gin wasn't dead--- wasn't--- wasn't alive---

His mind shrieked at it, tried to jerk back and away from that horrible thought. No, no, no no no no NO NO NO--- His head jerked from side to side even as those words shrieked in his ears, garbled and wrong and gone and gone and GONE--- gone gone gone gone gone gonegonegonegonegonegone--- He could not deny that, knew on some level of himself that this was not right and yet he clung to that feeling of guilt because he knew that the guilt was something that he could not avoid. He could not avoid it. Muken made him look towards himself, forced Aizen to turn his attention inwards, forced him to recognize how horribly he had miscalculated in his decisions.

It forced him to face his own guilt.

❝ -- this wasn't what I wanted, ❞ he said, voice broken around the sob and the tears that threatened and yet never fell. ❝ I never--- never wanted this--- I never wanted to w--- win, nev-- never--- never, never--- ❞

Not if Gin was not at his side.

HE WAS A BOY THIS TIME, STANDING IN THE DARKNESS OF MUKEN, standing and watching Aizen in one of the man's many sessions of delusion -- of despair. And he, too, despaired. A quiet voice, a voice that Aizen had once heard long ago under a moonlit night. The clouds parting, a gleam in the boy's silver hair. He embodied that, now, but the only blood on his cheek this time was his own. His own blood dripped from him, pooling around that small body, ragged, a torn body, a corpse haunting Aizen for an eternity and beyond.

❝ Why did I haveta die? ❞ It's quiet, almost as though Aizen wasn't meant to hear it. But that was a foolish notion; of course, Aizen was meant to hear it, this was a self-flaying of his own design. ❝ Why'd you haveta kill me? I know what I did hurt you, but you did so much to restrain yourself with everybody else, enemies, you'd make sure not to kill'em, you wanted the Gotei 13 to remain alive -- you barely swatted Harribel down, you didn't want her dead even though y'claimed she was useless to you -- you wanted'em to see the changes you had in store, you didn't wanna slaughter'em all, you didn't want to waste the effort. But me, me, I didn't even reach for Shinso when y'cut me down, why'd you kill me? Tousen-san, too, he would've followed ya ---- and all I --... ❞

❝ ALL I WANTED WAS TO ❚❚❚ ❚❚ ❚❚❚❚ ❚❚ ❚❚❚ ! YOU ❚❚❚❚ ❚❚ ❚❚❚❚ ❚❚❚ ! YOU ❚❚❚❚ ❚❚❚ ❚❚❚❚ ! AND NOW ❚❚❚'❚❚ ❚❚❚❚❚ ❚❚❚❚ ❚❚❚ ! ❞

AIZEN DID NOT KNOW WHY, HE DIDN'T KNOW WHAT GIN HAD WANTED, WHY HE KILLED HIM, WHY HE TOOK THE HOGYOKU FROM HIS FALLING CORPSE, WHY HE LIED ABOUT KILLING RANGIKU, HE STILL DIDN'T KNOW WHY -- GIN DIED BEFORE HE COULD LEARN WHY -- THUS, THE WORDS WERE STOLEN, the words were mute from the boy's mouth even as he sobbed them out. A secret, a secret Aizen could never fill in, could never find the words for, the puppet and memory of Gin an incomplete one. A secret that was taken to Ichimaru Gin's grave.

@keikakudori

[keikakudori]

the road down into the depths of the earth was not one traversed easily. here were where feet had stepped before, descending to tatarus where the deepest pits of the abyss lay. here was a god enshrined within the stygian depths, the void a cavernous thing that resonated faintly with the sigh of breath, a sussurration without cease as if the very walls of the earth breathed in tandem with the drawing of air into lungs. here, into the dark, was where one must proceed to find he who laid in waiting. there was no river lethe laying in wait to wash the remembrances of life, no river acheron or cocytus, no phlegethon. there was but the dark, vast and oppressive and waiting to be filled. here was where the feet of the traveler must move, carrying forth until finding the one that was sought out. here was where one young soul had been given permission to enter, her trials and tribulations paid for twice over in hearts' blood. here was where lamentation was left to dwell for those that were left within its darkness. Muken, it was named, and it was few who were allowed here. there was nothing but that endless darkness which laid in wait, through which petitioners must traverse to gain audience with those they sought. it was here that the greatest traitor unto the seireitei was entombed, the display of hubris having brought him low when all was said and done. no need was in place to sway the hearts of those that ruled here; it was allowance that permitted visitation, a claim many had but few sought to partake of. here he was left, arms outspread and legs and body bound to the pillars of stone, if stone it was; a hooded falcon, a deity unmade. here he remained, that traitor, his name reviled but not yet stricken from records. for it was with ignorance that the sins of the past could be revisited. still, however, the visitor was not one he expected. permission had been given to address him, face concealed and mouth bound, but there was a vague stirring of air as a presence familiar came to him in that darkness, though how still the air was. there was no chance of his hearing a footfall, no likelihood that he would be able to respond verbally. yet after another moment, that head shifted, bindings shifting to slide and unravel from around that head until they hung across his chest. an easy thing, that, exposing skin no less tanned despite how long he had been down here and an eye that still deep and rich as any brew of fresh coffee as his gaze lingered upon who had intruded upon this darkness. it was but a moment that he looked and observed ---- a moment alone. the binding would return if he did not keep them from his face, but bound as he was, placed against those pillars as he was, the man posed no threat to the young woman that was left to take him in. when he spoke, his voice was soft and hoarse from disuse. but still that same warm baritone, still conveyed with a poise and surety that had been natural as breathing. yet -- ... thinned, somehow. a voice that bore something within its depths that was unable to be missed; a lack of vitality.

❝ ... you've cut your hair. ❞ / @baiika

[keikakudori]

❝ How presumptuous of him, eh? Thinkin' he could hurt ya like I did. ❞ Fingers trace along Aizen's collarbone, emboldened by the fact that he wasn't truly there. Ichimaru Gin was dead, slain by the man now mournfully irked in that throne of black. Gin would give him a crown if he could, wisps of white trailing like an afterimage every time he moved that ethereal and languid form of his.

His ghostly figure leaned in, close, whispering to an ear.

❝ Do ya think 'bout dyin' for good, Sousuke? That ain't allowed~! No takin' it back -- what I gave ya sticks with ya forever, now. 'Cause ya wanted to transcend, you wanted immortality, remember? You wanted this. ❞

                           the silence of his soul did not ever last long. not when his grief lingered, holding upon his heart and his thoughts. presumptuous, gin said, and it was true. no one else could ever claim the life of aizen sousuke but him and aizen knew that. he could all but hear the hissing menace in the air, a serpent warning another against laying claim to his prey and that was more than enough to make his head turn as he gently grasped at the hand seeking along his chest to curl his fingers over the wrist, head bowing to leave his face tucked close to the throat of his partner while he breathed out softly with a brief inhale while his fingers gently held that wrist. a stop of motion for a second before he was turning his head all the more to press his cheek into gin's for a moment.

                           ❝ --- this was never what i wanted. i n---- i never wanted this, gin--- ❞ not this. somewhere within, he felt himself aching, something in his body shuddering, something in his mind flinching back and he shifted, moved his head --- not this. not this. not this---- not this not this not this not---... no. no. this was not --- this was --- he had never wanted --- had never --- never --- not this way --- not... not.... not... ❝ n-- never--- never---- ❞ was his breathing picking up? perhaps it was. but gin said it wasn't allowed--- and how he knew, too, that it was true. breathe, breathe---

                           ❝ --... it would be .... would be rude of me to turn it down- wouldn't it? ... i know. i know -- i... ❞ yet how something still shrieked inside of him. how something still howled in his chest. THIS WAS NOT WHAT I WANTED. THIS WAS NEVER WHAT I WANTED. I NEVER WANTED THIS--- I NEVER WANTED--- NEVER THIS. but gin was still here, wasn't he? WASN'T HE? so obviously, he had not done something truly terrible --- had not --- had not ---                            GIN HAD FORGIVEN HIM ---- RIGHT?

[keikakudori]

❝ I'm so cold, Sousuke. ❞ A lingering voice, a distant presence -- not quite right, not quite there. Deathly pallor, a shiver down the spine. The overlapping of a child's low whine, and the despair of an adult; Gin was glitching. In the dark of Muken, hauntingly, Aizen's delusion fluctuated openly, a flicker and twitch, as though agonized, curling in on itself akin to a collapsing star. Not the right facial structure, not the right skin tone, not quite the right voice(s) melding over each other, young and older, and the flash of blue which could be briefly seen was wrong, too icy. Too much, too much --

Aizen's tormenting memories were whipping this illusion around too much.

❝ It's so cold... ❞

today -- tonight -- tomorrow -- time meant nothing within Muken, nothing to the god bound in there. but there was darkness, his mind pressed under its weight, darkness that sank into bone and vein and sinew, through mind and heart and lungs. the darkness seemed alive, but he could hear gin -- he could hear him.

gin was out there -- at the edge, lingering, but he was trying, trying to reach him, trying trying trying trying-- his body strained against the bonds and the depths of Muken trembled. unseen those ripples rose upwards through the earth, the ground, shockwaves that undulated from the epicenter, threatening to grow stronger as he could hear gin crying out to him. gin -- older-- no. not older but younger but--- no.

❝ gin--! ❞

he couldn't go to him. none came down here, into the deep dark cold of Muken, into this place where light and life had no meaning and the sun was only as but a memory. a god of sun's fire incarnate pressed into this entrapped state. but he heard him calling out to him, as if pleading for him, begging, and aizen's mouth pulled open, lips spreading wide to leave teeth flashing, and aizen wasn't sure -- someone, someone was screaming. he did not know the sounds came from his mouth, did not know they were escaping. he was calling to him.

come here-- if you're cold, come here. i've always kept you warm before. you enjoyed it -- didn't you? i could keep you warm. i kept you content and warm, ensured that you would never be cold. you can take one of my yukata -- i know which ones are your favorites, the ones you like to lounge in. the ones that you'll wear and smile at me when you wear them because you like to see me trying to decide how much attention i need to continue paying to things---

gin had always seemed to preen with the way aizen would stare at him when he wore those yukata.

Muken was shaking now as aizen writhed in his bonds, his scream rising higher and then higher still. there were lost souls trapped down within the stygian dark, bound or not. they were placed here for their crimes, immortals all, those who could not be destroyed through conventional means. but gin was here too. gin was here too--- he could hear him, speaking of the cold. gin was here and aizen's voice choked on another wail.

❝ gin-- gin---! please-- i-! -- come here-- come here, i'll keep you warm-- i was always good at that-- wasn't i--?! ❞

he couldn't hear an answer.

the grounds of the seireitei were left to shiver and shake as he continued howling his pain into the endless dark, the earth shuddering as if it were the flesh of the man who shook with such agonies. aizen could not hear an answer.

gin-- where are you?! gin -- come back, come back--!

don't leave me here in the dark!

[keikakudori]

against time against grief against everything that has ever made me impossible

(how does it feel to be this alive?)

The echoing of a poem, and how it stirred something to Aizen's right, the way it seemed as though those written words were lingering -- haunting -- awakening a specter from dormancy. Or perhaps he never went dormant at all. Gin merely faded in and out of Aizen's vision akin to those glasses Aizen used to wear. Unneeded, those frames edged along the other's gaze, yet did he not become so accustomed to that blurry rim of black that he began not seeing it? Gin hovered, draping himself down onto Aizen's right shoulder, chin propping. There's sadness in that snarl. For himself, or for Aizen, an amazing lack of clarity. Blurry frames. Gin loomed too close for the picture to focus.

Gin's lips moved, but it was merely the voice of Aizen's own thoughts -- ripped open from the page, the inkwork staining like crimson against pale paper scroll. The ink bled and bled, he may as well have written in blood across white fabrics -- like that day...

"How does it feel to be this alive?"

against time.

against grief.

but grief was encompassing. grief, a word that belonged in a dictionary. he knew the definitions of it, varied and multitudinous as they were. yet -- ... the words were still there, as if etched upon bone and sinew and muscle with acid, cut through him, into him.

grief. noun. a deep and poignant distressed caused by or as if by bereavement.

yet ---- tears would not fall. how he had strained for them. numbed as he was, empty as he was, he strained for those tears. a presence at his right, his awareness focusing upon it to the exclusion of all else. when gin was near, he could only ever focus upon him. how had aizen ever managed to get his work done when gin had grown man-tall, when he had become older, when his robes were always a size or two too big and he would stare across the office from beneath his lashes at the slope of throat and the slant of collarbone, waiting to see if a hand would lift and he would see a flash of wrist and those long fingers? it was a question for the ages. but he had done his work and stared, yearning, never flushing if he saw gin glance at him as if to say i know you're looking at me and choosing instead to smile at him.

how aizen had had a different smile for him. only ever for him. a smile that had only belonged to gin.

when was the last time he had smiled? he didn't remember that either, didn't remember what it felt like. how long had he been down here, with only gin for company? how long since that day? days. aeons. seconds. hours. an eternity and yet what was time to him anymore? but gin was here, gin, speaking words of a poem, something which aizen had murmured once. gin had always kept to what aizen enjoyed, had learned at his side, his elbow, at his shoulder. his world had been aligned; the central point had ever been balanced, with gin ever ready to ensure he would not find his ego growing too large. a skewering tongue and aizen's ego would be left deflated and bleeding.

but gin was here -- gin was here and aizen tried to focus upon him. was it growing more difficult to do so? he did not know. but how aizen shifted, attention turning towards him, his face animating more than it had been in ... he did not know. he did not know at all, did not know how long it had been. the darkness was whole to him, all encompassing. yet ... gin remained here with him and aizen tried to press his head to gin's own, trying to focus upon him. he tried, with those words filling his ears. he had always enjoyed reading books to him. how proud he was of being able to read english and spanish fluently, translating for gin, doing it without thinking. he had had practice of conveying the translation as exactly as he could, barring a word here or a phrase there from time to time. it had never been easy when that happened --

but he had ever conveyed the meaning to gin, drawing him into debates, trading philosophy, exchanging viewpoints. aizen had delighted in having gin challenging his ways of thinking, delighted in seeing gin's mind unfolding for him when he drew him into such conversations. let gin's intelligence shine! how he adored seeing how quickly he could quick up on obscure tracts of philosophy and beyond. aizen had delighted in it so deeply. he knew that gin had blown through the academy in but a year and how proud he grew of him. he had always loved teaching and gin had been eager. did gin remember how eager he'd been---?

... an answer. gin had asked him a question. his head shifted and his eye sought to focus, though there was only him to see in this darkness, gin's beauty as ethereal as the glow of the moon caught in the high clouds at night. had he ever told gin that his inner world bore the moon in the sky now--? ... no. to speak of zanpakutou was ever so intimate. but if gin asked him, he would tell him.

i'd tell you anything so long as you stay with me. please, gin -- please -- please stay with me --... gods. stay with me. forgive me for being-- for--

blink.

had gin become more diffused--? no -- yes? ... he didn't know. this last period of unawareness had felt longer than any prior. but ...

❝ ... is this living, gin? ❞ he whispered, voice hoarse. ❝ i do not know anymore. how can it be, here, in this darkness? i would give it all up if i could ... if i could simply, wholly ... if i could ... give it back --... take it back --...

for you. i would give it back for you. if you asked me -- if you asked me to, gin... ❞

a small shudder. was he gasping? was his breathing starting to become stronger? faster--? it felt as if it was starting to, but in the way that one watched a disaster occurring to someone else. disconnected. yes -- that was the word. was he--? ... he did not know. how long had he ---

HOW LONG HAD HE BEEN HERE--?

blink.

a shudder.

❝ --... please, ask me gin. i'd do it for you. i'll--- if you ask me -- if you were the one asking me, i would do it. for you. please, gin-- please-- ❞

[keikakudori]

❝ Happy birthday, Sousuke. ❞ Soft words.

Words which drifted along with the air like a whisper of the winds, a ghost speaking. And how that ghost seemed to seep into the edge of the man's vision at his right, draping himself languidly against a broad shoulder. Aizen sat alone, as he always did, and yet he wasn't alone. As always, he was suspended into a constant state of both, a simultaneous thing, a grieving thing -- the phantom of Ichimaru Gin, smiling that slanted, sly smile... it was softer, sadder now, whilst pale slender fingers walked themselves up along Aizen's left shoulder, absent-mindedly veering down to the center of his chest. Where that rested.

❝ I don't got a gift for ya, is that alright? I figured y'already got everythin' you ever wanted... a nice throne, some peaceful drownin' quiet, an immortal life 'n power far beyond aaaaannnnny Shinigami or Hollow, and that gapin' hole in yer chest. Give or take a few details... seems pretty close to whatcha were goin' for. ❞ Those white-cloaked shoulders shrugged, dismissive, a hollow gesture for something which was once done so playfully.

How he sighed, then, and closed those too-vibrant eyes. Too much blue, too much. So he closed them as though resigned. Remorseful, perhaps, or simply tired. Stretched too thin. Reflecting back the mournful song that resounded into Muken's every shadowed corner, into the abyss and beyond, from Aizen's very soul. A turn of that sharp chin, a brushing graze of lips to Aizen's cheek, and Gin lingered there akin to a caressing breeze. How lifelike, Kyoka Suigetsu's ability to have warm puffs of air from subtly parted lips tickle against Aizen's skin as though real. Hypnosis that specifically targeted its own wielder, cast upon himself to cope. How lovingly this illusion brewed itself into both the despairing self-hatred, personified, that Aizen carried within himself -- and the mournful love, that heart's yearning to take that winter's day back. To have him back, even as merely a waking dream.

❝ I suppose I'm spent, y'know? I gave ya so much for so long, I gave ya my childhood, I gave ya my dedication 'n time, I gave ya immortality 'n a higher power, and I gave ya my life. I couldn't give ya anythin' more even if I tried. So this'll do, right, Sousuke? Jus' me 'n you, in this dark place, together for eternity. How's that sound? ❞

he always remembers. is it gin's way of keeping track of the years, as if to remind him of how long it has been since he was placed down here in the dark? aizen stopped counting it long ago, but time holds no meaning in this place. it holds no meaning, nothing of that nature, even as he aches to wrap his arms around the man who lingers here with him. here, in this darkness, they remain sealed away from the world above. that is how it has been for a long while now and he does not remain focused upon the nature of the years. he does not remain focused on the darkness. his head turns and moves, seeking to touch his temple against those pale strands of hair as he listens to him speak. ❝ ... you did give me everything, ❞ he whispers, breathing in and out slowly. ❝ more than i ever deserved. more than i ever should have had, gin. ❞ here in the dark, gin remembers for him. what are birthdays anymore? does his viper count the years for him? does he count the days, the minutes? whatever the case, aizen knows only that he prefers to press his cheek against gin's hair, letting gin speak as he pleases. a waking dream was better than nothing at all, better than the void and the loneliness. small things, things he seeks to smooth over, the rough angles attended to with a care and gentleness. not entirely perfect, not wholly -- but held by memories. aizen's memory is a sharp thing, acute and capable of being in the nature of photographic. he has held these memories together, cradled in his own shivering hands. but oh, he does dearly need them, the memories. he needs -- much more. so he just turns towards gin, letting his eye come open to study his face, lips trembling faintly for a moment ❝ ... why do you keep tracking my birthdays? here, in this place ... ❞ there is a slow inhale before he was swallowing once more and then permitted his head to move towards gin's, trying to brush the tip of his nose through those pale strands of hair. ❝ ... i always appreciated your birthday wishes the most of all, though. even here. even like this -- i always appreciate it from you most of all, above anyone else. thank you, gin. ❞ thank you for always staying with me. no -- he could never let go of him. not here. not in the dark. they were both tired, weren't they? perhaps, perhaps they could sleep for a time together. perhaps they could rest. for what was a birthday now to him? what was a birthday to a man who had become immortal, thanks to the very actions of his own right hand? they could rest. here, in this unending darkness -- they could rest. and maybe, next year, whenever next year came ... gin could tell him that once more, for his birthday meant so little to him when he was left in here. how could he ever consider the birthday he'd once celebrated worth anything now? he knew, in las noches, in his own quarters, rested a calligraphy set. a gift that he had held close for years upon years, cherished and loved. perhaps one day, when he is left free to move as he pleased, he would go back and see if he could find it. because memory is all that he has to him now.

[keikakudori]

"Y'can't take it back, Sousuke, though I wish y'could..." Did he sound sad, now? Furrowed brow, a pained expression, eyes opened and gleaming with... something? Or a trick of the light. Did he sound sorrowful for more than whatever device was maintaining Gin's emotional range -- beyond that? Gin seemed self-aware these days, potently honed on the fact of his own tragedy. But more than that, more than that, there was something heavier here, the cusp of a secret...

"...I wish y'could, wouldn't that be so nice? For you to go back, go back'n fix --" A gentle caress, a touch more solid now, stronger. He's been getting awfully strong lately, blurred nature shifting back into focus as though revived by memory-inspired touch. Familiar enough to redraw, to trace against the past. Gin's touching him, gently, and looking so utterly sad.

And he's opening his mouth, but there is nothing for Aizen Sousuke's subconscious to fill it with, amongst the plethora of knowledge at Aizen's disposal, all the dirt and gossip and know-how, all the observations and weaknesses discerned for all around him, all of the intel he collected, all the connections he knew of... there was nothing to fill this gaping moment. There is nothing for Kyoka Suigetsu in all of her glorious efforts to reanimate the dead to suddenly surmise -- of Ichimaru Gin's greatest remorse, of what plagued him to turn his blade on Aizen that fateful day.

It has been years, it has been a second, it's been days, weeks, a month, twenty centuries. It's been everything, and nothing, and Aizen still does not know --

-- Gin's opening his mouth and nothing is coming out --

AND AIZEN SOUSUKE WILL NEVER KNOW WHY.

Illusion!Gin, continued from here.

i wishy'could.

did gin feel it too--? the regret? the pain? aizen wondered about it sometimes. he was -- he was so certain that gin must hate him. he was certain of it because -- ... because he-- ... his mind twisted away from it, from the memories, from the possibilities. it twisted away and yet he was so sure that gin must hate him, surely.

yet -- hadn't gin forgiven him before for his failures? for his mistakes? during those years when they were at their most tumultuous, in those years following gin being raised to head of the sanbantai, how they had fought with one another. sharp words had been exchanged in those years, gin pushing at him, challenging him, and for all that he could frustrate aizen? it had been absolutely thrilling. no one had ever done that before. not hirako shinji. not tosen kaname. no -- they had not done that and nevermind all the little gnats and flies that buzzed around, hoping for a shred of attention from the man known as aizen sousuke.

no one had ever been like gin.

but gin had seemed to forgive him in those years when things had been truly rocky when aizen would slip up behind him, when he would curl an arm around his waist and draw gin against himself if he could, risking an elbow to the stomach while pressing his face against his nape and then -- apologizing. it did not hurt, much, to apologize. and it had grown easier with time. aizen was willing to admit that he could be an ass, that he could be sharper than he had to be. that he could be even cruel with gin. but never purposefully. it was merely that he had a skilled tongue and could flense someone without hesitation, flay them if it came down to it. their tempers would flare and they would step away from one another, cooling -- and then he would apologize, especially if the fault was his.

gin had always seemed to forgive him his faults, especially after a fight. an argument. he had always seemed to forgive him when it had been something large or something small, aizen swallowing his own pride to apologize. because he meant it. because he was sorry. no matter how a voice accented in similar fashion might murmur in his head about caring for people--- ... he cared for gin. wasn't that enough? it had to be enough.

and gin had always seemed willing to forgive him. to let aizen make it up to him.

please don' say it like it's my fault. my center got thrown off 'cause you were bein' ornery.

and he had apologized for it. he had apologized because gin meant something to him he did not want to explain. he -- cared for him. more than cared. all it had taken for him to realize his own emotions had been a stupid, stupid joke that'd made aizen laugh in spite of himself, a laugh that had had him shaking his head decades ago, smiling brightly at him. what -- was smiling? what was it to smile--? ... he could not recall. he could not remember. smiling was far gone from him anymore. but what pulled him now, here, was the distress he saw on gin's face. a sadness that had been rare, something he might have caught in a vulnerable moment.

how few moments like that there had been, but sometimes, if he turned his head just right -- if he did that and saw gin at the right angle, in the right light ...

his arms shifted as if he would reach up to pull him to his chest, let gin curl up in his lap the way he'd done when he was smaller, younger. when aizen would stroke his hair and let him be a child instead of a caretaker, a viper, a third seat or a lieutenant. when he would have nightmares and aizen would be up late, letting gin burrow his face into his chest while he stroked his hair and back, speaking gently to him and letting gin talk about it. to reassure him. kaname had wished to undergo hollowification and aizen had granted that wish. magnanimous, understanding -- he was that. he had chosen to be that, with gin. but he'd never asked it of gin. he never would have asked it. why would gin ever need to do that? he was perfect as he was. magnificent.

but he ached to hold him now, to soothe gin. it had been the rules of the rukongai. aizen was the older of them. the stronger. he had understood it even before gin had spoken of coming from the sixty-fourth district from the northern section of the rukongai. and he knew gin had to have seen it in him as well. those from the rukongai ever seemed to recognize each other, that feral air beneath everything. he'd hidden it so well from most everyone else, yet gin had seen it. and he had protected him, guarded him, fed him without hesitation and sharing his own food and more. yet gin looked upset now and aizen strained against the bonds as if he would pull him close, to comfort him, to --- because it was gin. how those arms strained, seeking to pull him close.

to comfort.

he always wished to comfort gin and how could he not do so--? how could he ignore it when gin looked this way? it made aizen's heart ache with that desire to hold him now, but his arms would not move, no matter how he tried while he looked upwards, face leaning into that touch without hesitation. when gin wanted to be gentle with him, he could be very gentle. the gentleness made his eye sting and he blinked --- but the tears did not come. at least -- he did not think so, yet aizen ignored it because gin's mouth opened as he spoke of fixing things. opened -- but he didn't continue. if only he could weep -- if only he could cry for what he had done and yet --... and yet, gin was here, wasn't he?

aizen did not notice -- was not aware -- when moisture gathered in his eye, when it grew and built and then began to run slowly down that naked cheek.

❝ ... what do i need to fix, gin--? tell me. tell me and i will do it for you. please--- whatever i need to do for you, whatever i need to fix -- i will. i will-- i will, gin, please --- please, tell me. ❞

if he could do that -- if he could fix it, whatever it was, then he would. for gin, he would do whatever he could for him. he would do anything within his power to fix it. he would. if he could -- if he could do that ... if he could do that one thing that gin could not tell him now--?

... maybe ...

maybe gin would forgive him.

[keikakudori]

“ come on, i’ll bandage you up. “

enemies to lovers but one is injured — starters

❝ ... don't bother. ❞

he doesn't say it harshly, doesn't say it coldly. it is just a distant and unaffected tone as he looks down at the wounds. the young man seemed worried enough, but the wound doesn't matter to him. already, it's starting to close, to heal. it is something that he ignores. the sensation, the understanding -- no, it does not matter.

whatever the case, it is a situation which makes him think of ulquiorra, of the regeneration that he himself goes through. there is never going to be a need to fret over him, never a need to be worried over whether or not aizen will be fine. once, he may have been left with the healers hovering over him --- it had been known that he had been reckless when he'd been younger. reckless because of his own reasons. reckless because ... whatever the case, aizen could not have said. not to someone who did not know the lackadaisical man who had once been his captain.

but he is waving that potential concern away, unbothered, not attempting to hide it either. no, there is a casual indifference to his own wounds, grievous as they might be. it does not matter. these wounds won't kill him.

❝ save the bandages for someone who actually will need them. i'm not someone you need to worry about. there are other people who can use them more, who actually need them. ❞

it was, of course, true enough. what else was he to say about it?

[keikakudori]

@kkageokuri​ | continued from [ h e r e ]

                    the sneer which tugged at his mouth was not, for once, restrained. he had seen the wince which shunsui had displayed to him as a result of that title and perhaps part of him hoped it ached. there was a similarity to be found in the aching of a new title, an empathy which aizen would not divulge in the least. not when he himself would never speak of his own inheritance of taking over as the head of the gobantai. not when that had hurt in its own poignant fashion despite all the moves he had made to bring his captain down. perhaps, once, he could have been sympathetic. shunsui had not asked to inherit the title from yamamoto, after all. and while from a logical standpoint he could applaud the central 46 for their choice of new leadership?

                    it didn’t change the fact that shunsui had indeed done what he had done.

                    ❝ no, ❞ came that voice, a sharp thing cutting through the protestations. ❝ if i had been in your place, i would have done many things differently. but then again-- ❞ there was a calm shifting where he remained bound. had it not been for the burning coal of that visible eye, one might even have named aizen sousuke as being relaxed. ❝ i’m the one who dared to look at all of the flaws within the seireitei full in the face, aren’t i? ❞

                    but still, the snort that sounded was verging on disgusted.

                    ❝ keep yhwach at bay? you’re not stupid enough to actually believe that, kyoraku-soutaichou. i very much doubt i kept him at bay so much as it’s far more plausible that he chose to take his time with everything because he didn’t need to rush in order to face any of you down. ❞

                    but how that proud head shifted idly, his gaze lingering on the older man. there was much to be said about aizen sousuke in the wake of Deicide. he was not the overlord anymore, no longer the flowing display of gentle humility he had been as taichou and fukutaichou. for all of his respect for the older man? no, aizen did not feel like playing very nice at all. but the comment of how he had gone from fascinating to irritating did earn a tightening around his eye.

                    ❝ i had been expecting to have been able to stretch my legs; it wasn’t until yhwach broke that chair you forced me to remain in that i had any opportunity to do so, after all. being asked for assistance and then not being able to provide aid will irritate anyone, soutaichou. perhaps i might forgive you if i were permitted more of a chance to move about. ❞

                    as if they both didn’t know that aizen remained bound because he wished to be. he’d chosen to alarm the older man when he had descended into muken, hadn’t he? aizen had made a very deliberate showing of answering shunsui and approaching him. the seals which kept the godling entombed meant nothing. the keys which shunsui had buried in his heart were nothing. should aizen sousuke wish it, he could walk out of muken without being stopped. yet he remained and the older man was on his own in trying to puzzle out why he would ever do so. perhaps the better question would be what aizen sousuke could stand to gain by staying in muken? he was, after all, not alone down there.

                    ❝ but allow me to remind you that i had no desire nor wish to leave muken in the first place. there is not a whit of gratitude in you for helping you out, after all. ❞

[keikakudori]

" i've always wanted to ask - why out of everyone , am i the one to evoke your greatest disdain ? " he knows the answer . " truly , there are others who are more like dogs of the state than i ever was - " he simply wants to hear it ; not that it hasn't been clearly spoken in their many debates , but perhaps in some form kisuke desires to hear a reprimandation for his actions and to spurn against his guilt . he wasn't quite sure the reason , regardless .

unpromoted ask | always accepting

                muken is cold and it is dark and it is silent. here, in the deep quiet of this abyssal realm, he is aware of the silence. but here in this place, here in muken, he is ignoring those that linger because of the adjustments to the seals. he knows that shunsui has asked this bastard to come by and ensure they are once more as they need to be -- he knows, too, that it will be here in the dark he remains. how infuriating. they asked for his aid and barely allowed him to assist. the rawness of his regrowing arm promises that kisuke will return -- and return he has, now, to make sure that the traitor will not be getting free. but how do they not understand he does not care to escape? there is nothing for him up there. not even a spindle-shanked man with golden hair. he never turned to look at him when they had left for the palace of the soul king -- never a glance from those olive eyes which would have been enough. so no -- here in the dark he will stay, leaving his chest to rise and fall. he has cooperated, willingly so, with them. and as much as he wants to ignore the presence of the man in front of him, it does not seem possible today.

                there is a lingering and then -- ... that voice. that voice which has his eye opening slowly to stare down at kisuke from his loftier perch.

                in another time, in another life, in that life he had before there was the tenkai kechuu and blood spraying through the heavens like misty clouds of crimson, falling thickly in patters throughout the atmosphere, he would have enjoyed it. in that lifetime, he had a snake coiled at his throat and a blazing beacon of zealous nature at his beck and call. in that lifetime, he was whole and wholly himself, unashamed and open. if only he could go back to that lifetime. perhaps that is why his right eye remains covered -- because with it, he looks into the past. it is a stained eye, colored not the brandy shade of the one which is filled with raw contempt, even hatred, that lingers on kisuke. but he does not know of the color it has become and the shopkeeper does not either. for that to be the case, then he would have to unravel the band about his own head and none would be willing to bring their hands near him, out of the risk of him possibly sinking his teeth into those fingers or that hand. perhaps the snarl he’d shown from time to time had convinced them not to touch him more than is necessary. 

                but here -- here, he does not feel above him. he feels simply ... here. in the dark. he feels as if there is no more purpose for him. and to be used as a war weapon of the seireitei is something that he never expected. perhaps he’d put his teeth into shunsui’s face if he ever sees him again -- perhaps into his throat.

                ❝ -- you’re asking me why? ❞ 

                oh, such a question opened up such an expanse for an answer. a hundred years and more of simmering resentment and jealousy alike -- but the hatred was newer. the hatred was fresher. oh, he hated him. he hated this man more than he did anyone else and aizen twisted and moved against the bindings for the first time in several minutes as if to get his hands free and lunge for kisuke’s throat. such stillness is unsettling -- perhaps aizen is best when he is in motion, fluidly adaptive to any battlefield you place him upon. but this is no battlefield. this is simply muken, the deepest level of the prison beneath the ichibantai barracks. how easily will kyoraku shunsui sleep, how easily will he move, knowing every day that he is down here in the dark -- that the seals do not hold him, that the bindings mean nothing? he proved it to him. simply so. easily so. he could break them, of course -- but it is easier, far less hassle, to make the other man undo them. 

                ❝ i never trusted you. the first time i laid eyes on you, i saw something; recognition. a mirror, so to speak. call me a hypocrite if you will, but i looked at you and i saw something my captain didn’t -- or perhaps he chose not to see it. i saw you were dangerous. i despised you for the closeness that he offered to you -- ❞ the closeness which he craved. all he got were bruises on his wrists and a hand flipping at him almost dismissively, as if to shoo him away. as if shinji no longer felt the need to -- scratch the itch, so to speak. he had never asked anyone how much they saw. he had never asked gin how much he saw. ❝ -- all without seeming to see just how dangerous you were. i saw it -- especially that night. i told you then, didn’t i--? you are exactly the kind of man i thought you were. ❞

                another twisting in the bonds. does muken shake subtly? to bind a god is no easy task. he has consumed mythology from across the world in his spare time. the god loki of norse mythology had been bound with the entrails of his own son. there, a serpent would drip poison into his eyes and loki’s wife would catch it in a bowl. but when she had to empty it, the god’s writhing from the pain was the basis for earthquakes. such was what he remembers. here and now, he remembers this. 

                ❝ after all, all that i did was follow in your own fucking research, in your footsteps. i was looking for an answer. and yet - they laud you as an ally. they think of you as a friend. all because you help them. my crimes are nothing, NOTHING!, compared to what the goteijusantai has done! ❞ he has read the archives.

                he knows things. things which he shared with gin, with kaname.

                ❝ you intervened with my business that night -- and for a hundred years ... i resented you. i was perhaps grateful in some quiet way that you saved him but i equally resented you. but i never hated you-- ❞

                now he strains at the bindings, now he snarls and what had been a calm voice is twisting with rage and vitriol. now those large shoulders of his tense and he strains at the bonds. he undid them before. he can undo them again. there is no denying that muken is shaking now. aizen sousuke strains as if he is going to sink his teeth into kisuke’s throat. he’d eviscerate the man and sodomize him with his own spine if he could get his hands upon him and the bindings are creaking, creaking, CREAKING as aizen pulls at them. he is ready to snap them apart and he sees kisuke take a step back. he’s sure it’s involuntary but that eye of brown is swirling with black, energy pooling from the corner of it as his voice distorts as he suddenly roars at him, his voice silencing all the whispering echoes of those that stay here in muken. he is not alone down here, after all. but he is the worst one to be placed in this abyssal hell. he is the truest sinner of the seireitei. and he will kill urahara kisuke if it’s the last thing he ever does in his life.

                because urahara kisuke could have done something that would have solved so much. he had been there that day. he could have done more. aizen knows this for a fact that he could have done the one thing that aizen may have forgiven his entire existence for. but he did not. and the hatred within the god is profound, a horrid thing that is rotting him apart and boiling like magma beneath the crust of the earth. his eye is blazing gold and the air is starting to hum and roar despite the bindings which hold him.

                ❝ but i hate you now! i hate you, urahara kisuke! I DESPISE YOU! YOU COULD HAVE SAVED HIM THAT DAY! YOU COULD HAVE SAVED HIM! I KNOW YOU COULD HAVE FUCKING SAVED HIM YOU FUCKING BASTARD! YOU COULD HAVE SAVED GIN AND YOU LET HIM FUCKING DIE! I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU WITH EVERYTHING THAT I AM AND I WILL KILL YOU FOR LETTING HIM DIE! I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU BECAUSE YOU DIDN’T SAVE GIN! YOU WERE SO INTENT ON STOPPING ME AND YOU NEVER FUCKING THOUGHT FOR A SECOND TO SAVE HIM INSTEAD! I WILL NEVER EVER FORGIVE YOU FOR NOT SAVING GIN! DO YOU HEAR ME, URAHARA KISUKE?! NEVER! ❞

[keikakudori]

“I should hate you, for everything. Yet somehow, seeing you sitting here in this cell. I can’t help but feel pity.”

unprompted asks | always accepting

❝ ... starrk. ❞

the name of his primera emerges quietly, a slow note in a voice that has grown faintly rough from disuse before that head lifts and the hollow is given the weight of that stare. this is no longer the man garbed in ivory itself, no longer the one who ruled las noches with such ease. there is something that is missing from the shinigami, if shinigami he still is, something essential and vital that's faded like morning fog beneath the heat of the sun itself. far gone are the ivory halls and tiled floors, for he is ensconced here within the deep of the world, bound within darkness and by darkness itself bound.

would anyone understand why he did not simply leave this place? probably not. yet it seems impossible for a god to be so bound by the efforts of those who are lesser. if bound he is, then it is because aizen sousuke is bound by choice.

he is here, after all. he is here and here he will remain until the time comes for him to be used once more, bound to the will of the seireitei to be their warhound and a weapon both. he does not know who permitted the espada into this place but perhaps it was shunsui. it did seem as if the two had shared a strange bit of a bond on that winter's day, with the sun cold and bright overhead. whatever the case, he does feel a vague hint of pleasure that starrk's not dead. a vague joy that the primera did indeed survive. he heard him on that day, senses taking in everything.

sorry, aizen-sama. it looks like i can't repay my debt to you.

and now here starrk was, saying he should hate him, saying that he could only pity him instead. slowly, his eye closed and a sigh heaved from his lungs. or was it muken itself that sighed, shaped as it was to press down upon the traitor with the depths of stygian pressure and umbral might? did the air itself glide with the noise that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once? it was difficult to determine but the shinigami shifted himself, once, and then his eye was coming open once more to meet the gaze of the one who he had raised to his primera so long ago.

❝ i rather imagine you aren't alone in that. i think more than a few people likely hate me these days. ... either way, i am glad to see that you survived, starrk. ❞

yet he and starrk could relate on something else now, couldn't they? they both lost a piece of themselves on that day.