i could make you perfect, he wants to say.
when he looks from the fullness of a chest to that mauled by the passing of the years, he sees a need for perfection in such clean evenness. lo, in the same breath he might repent and beg upon knees worn for the forgiveness of such thought, for doubt and doubt and doubt is the works of black robed demons. he, of all disciples, should not look upon what was wholesome and good, and think he could better it in any way.
yet, he could do it. he could make aizen perfect, and truly like him. it would take no more than the digging of his fingers -- perhaps the slightest pressure of breaking through bone and muscle layer, but it would be no difficult task. if it was asked of him, he would remove the heart of he celestial and all. there would be a momentary pain, if he was not careful in carving around and forcing his hands into a cusp to hollow out the chest, but it was all so insignificant in comparison to what would become of it. nothingness -- there would be no pain once it was done. no need to laugh, no need to speak, no need to shout, no need to do much else but at last sink into the centre of the universe and accept its good tiding and welcome embrace. it is so truly freeing. he could do it. and after he was done doing it, he could eat it, the heart, and truly finish his work. but He was perfect, and if He was not perfect the way he was, heart included, He would have done it himself.
the next time they speak, when he has been graced with the close presence of Him come to stand instead of dictate from a throne, when his eye level comes just barely to see that heart, he will continue wondering what it would be like to feel god's blood. he imagined it gold, and with the ability to heal all ailments.
would it heal him, he will wonder too, of his tireless lust?
