❛ there's one thing i've always wondered - ❜ the facade turns more serious, grey eyes narrowing with a discernible aura somewhere in between distaste &&. genuine curiosity - ❛ you loved shinji all those years ago, no ? i ain't gonna pretend like i didn't know you two were rolling in the hay , not that it really matters anymore . ❜ he chuckles through the awkwardness as well as through the tension in the air, ❛ &&. i'm not good at love but if you ask me , hollowfying someone doesn't look like love . ❜
Ask my muse increasingly personal questions. See how far you can push them.
there were few people who could draw a visceral response from the deity but one of them stood before him now. a man he’s found a quiet seething of contempt for that had been birthed the night he had followed his captain with that silent grace of his to the grounds of the juunibantai, lingering there in the dark as he took in the words from the mouth of a man who he had kissed, who he had adored. the feelings of one’s subordinates, shinji had said that evening -- how aizen had taken it to heart, however. that lesson had been taken in, examined, turned over and about on itself as he’d quietly yielded to the prospect of being punished for his eavesdropping. a game they played -- a game that he played, wanting to be caught, wanting his captain’s attention again and again and again--
hirako shinji could be a cruel man.
aizen had watched the new head of the juunibantai quietly, regarding urahara kisuke with an air of unsettled nature. the man was, somehow -- dangerous. dangerous -- and he remembered the day he’d found that research. the research which had led him here. he was more than just the sun -- aizen sousuke was black hole, undeniable in the gravitational force of his power. nothing stronger than he dwelt out there and yet -- and yet, no, he found his gravity tugged upon. he had ever been tugged upon by the man who dwelt as the sun within his sky. the brightness of the sun within the expanse of blue and he’d always wondered about that -- about the spills of golden hair that would leave him feeling smeared with their color, the hair that he would catch at with his fingers, touch the ends of it to his mouth, as if to swallow down their light, their brilliance. as if to always carry some piece of his captain within himself.
the meaning of his name. and hair like threads of yellow sunbeams. he had wanted to enclose that man in his arms. wanted to keep him. he wanted to draw those eyes to his own, that mouth to his own lips. wanted to breathe him in. his captain’s reiatsu had always smelled airy, light. the taste upon his tongue was a bubbling thing, effervescent, a cascade of bubbles popping over the muscle and down his throat. the night he had dragged his captain down, he had scented the change starting to happen -- had wondered what it would taste like once it was done. hollows did not taste the way shinigami did.
but this was ground that urahara kisuke strode upon without care for what it meant. for what it meant for a man who had trailed after shinji out of duty and devotion. a captain was there to shoulder the mantle of the division as a whole. upon their shoulders they carried that responsibility to those underneath their command. they were the head of the division, the ones who took that responsibility and made it their own. it was those men and women who carried not just themselves but the whole of the division upon their backs. their shoulders. and shinji had been no different. no -- no different at all.
but a lieutenant -- a lieutenant’s loyalty extended to one thing and one thing alone. it was to their captain. and aizen sousuke’s loyalty had once been entirely to the man he called his captain. in the wake of the quincy purges, he had found himself climbing the ranks, edging closer and then closer still to one goal in particular at that point in time. but as he had risen, he had become disillusioned -- embittered. but his loyalty had been for one man and one man alone. how he had tried to make him see that. it had been something he’d tried to show. of the lack of complaining about paperwork which belonged to the blonde. the sarcasm with which he sometimes let loose, showing he wasn’t so uptight. the urging for him to take an umbrella on the days when it might rain. the cups of tea the organizing of files the moments when he would step between an attack and the lanky blonde, his own blade bared to bar the way of someone who dared point their sword at his captain.
the bruises which had shackled his wrists. the moments when there seemed to be a tenderness which would melt away, vanish -- disappear. what had once given him hope began to curdle in his stomach akin t o sour milk, sour fruit. he had begun to realize -- and he had begun to take aim. he had become bitter, jaded, understanding the lessons that were being taught him likely without the man who served as his teacher ever knowing he imparted those lessons. one of them had come to fruition beautifully with aizen’s second fukutaichou -- how to be intimate with someone and yet remain closed off. but unlike hirako shinji, aizen would linger, murmur gently to momo, would allow her her flights of fancy and her shy blushes and more. and more. he tended her carefully, speaking softly empty words and more.
she was not his fukutaichou. not truly. not on anything but paper. a good little pawn and nothing else. nothing more. it had been merciful to shatter her -- hadn’t it--? perhaps. her heart, her emotions -- she had been blinded by him. and he had worked, deliberately, to blind her. to ruin her. she had never seen the self he was when with gin. ah, no -- a tender little flower who’d been made to serve one purpose and one purpose alone.
but it was not of his gin he thought of now nor of hinamori momo. he did not think of his right hand nor of the girl he’d discarded once she had served her purpose.
he thought of his captain. his captain -- and of urahara kisuke associating the word LOVE with them. with him. with aizen sousuke and hirako shinji. a word which had been there, yes -- yes? yes. a word which had seen aizen ever remembering his captain’s birthday, some years quieter than others, a word which had seen pools of rich firelit brandy trailing after the man who had somehow commanded the respect of a youth who outweighed him in terms of power and then some. but oh, the older man was wily and canny and how could aizen not have fallen in love with him? how could he not have done so--? how could he have ever avoided that emotion where his captain was concerned?
bruises. bruises on his wrists bruises on his neck his thighs bruises from when he would ask for it when he would arch and beg for him for him only FOR HIM-- how he would beg LOOK AT ME LOOK AT ME LOOK AT ME--
LOOK AT ME, HIRAKO SHINJI. LOOK AT ME.
no -- the words did not spill out of his mouth but perhaps they had been there in his eyes. in the hands that would reach if they were pinned down. on the nights when he was given leeway to do as he pleased instead, brushing kisses with reverence along that body, trained and dedicated and devout. he knew what look meant come, come here--and what finger movement said for him to get upon his knees, for him to bend and open his mouth and to lie back and what to -- what to -- he knew all of them. he had learned them all. he’d been dedicated, dedicated until he wasn’t. until he’d understood. until he understood that no matter what he did, no matter how he served, no matter how he begged -- how many times would a hand flap at him until it was oto much? how many times would hirako shinji turn away from him--? how many times would he carry the impressions of fingerprints upon his wrists? he knew kisuke had seen them from time to time. sometimes they had been fresh and aizen would only stare at the scruffy man calmly as he idly drew the sleeves down to conceal the marks.
and how long until the love had faded from those depths of soft brown, the tenderness evaporating like the morning fog. and yet -- and yet, aizen had found himself hoping that night that something could happen. had he wanted him dead--? he’d wanted him hurt. he had wanted him to hurt. wanted those eyes to see him and yet they hadn’t. not until this day as he and urahara kisuke stood in the rubble, the edge of kyoka suigetsu having cut across the back his fingernails had once dragged down as he would cling to the older man with his hands and his legs, singing out his name, his moans, arching for him and gasping out his pleasure. had he ever let slip such an emotion--? such a confession--? no. no, he had bitten it down every time. he was swinging at the shopkeep’s face now with the blade he held, a snarl curling his mouth as he worked on driving him back. this man and the damnable geta and his thoughts that perhaps he could ever understand what aizen sousuke felt for hirako shinji.
love -- love was a many-hued thing, a complicated emotion. love had him standing there, heart pounding in his chest with a cold exhilaration as the body of a woman who could have once been named a friend by the god of those monsters that followed his command and obeyed him had stood there in the sky, meeting the stare which had flashed to him. he had smiled at it. a cold smile. a vindictive smile. he had made the opening moves. at last, he had taken to the battlefront -- and of all those there, it was this man and this man alone that aizen had wanted to see. to cross swords with. lifeblood spilling upon debris and how he had spoken, daring that anger.
WHAT A FIERCE LOOK. I FEEL AS IF YOUR EYES ARE ALIVE AGAIN AFTER A HUNDRED YEARS. -- HIRAKO SHINJI -- DO YOU DESPISE ME? ... IF YOU DO, THEN ATTACK ME. I WILL MAKE AN EXCEPTION AND TAKE YOU ON WITH MY SWORD.
❝ you know nothing, urahara kisuke. ❞
it wasn’t about love. -- it wasn’t. even if he had not cut as deeply as he could into that back this day. even if he had not found ways to twist him up, bind him. MAKE HIM HURT TOO-- but hadn’t he--? gin’s stroke had cut into that young woman. did urahara kisuke even know of what had happened to sarugaki hiyori, a young woman who had been gifted a kanzashi once by aizen’s own hands as he had smiled at her, wishing her a fine birthday?
❝ don’t presume to know anything about me NOW! ❞
-- loved, said the shopkeep. how aizen’s arm swung, carrying the sharp edge of kyoka suigetsu at him once more. loved. as if it was gone. as if it had ever been gone. as if it was not buried underneath a bitter hurt that had built up in layer upon layer like shale, like silt, buried underneath a pain and heartache and anguish which he had tried to inflict back today tenfold, a hundredfold. at a man who had come here today, standing before him, those eyes sharp and then startled as aizen had flung that lesson back into his own face. ( WE HAVE NO NEED FOR SUCH THINGS. )
-- you loved shinji all those years ago, no?
how did one throw love away? how could one ever throw love away when love made so much of the world turn--?
how did one ever find the courage to say it’s not loved -- it’s loves. loves. i love him -- i love him how can i not? how can i not--?
