CAN'T FEAR YOUR OWN WORLD.

RULES.

MUSE BIOS.

VERSES.

PROMO / INTEREST CHECKER.

ASK.

❝ I do all sorts of things, ❞ Rose smiled ever-so-genuinely in Seinosuke’s general direction. ❝ Mostly playing either my guitar or piano and sometimes write poetry. And I do very much enjoy a good book or two… or five. Whatever piques my interest. ❞

It really had been a while since he’d last seen the healer, hadn’t it? Oh how time flew by from everything that had happened in the last… holy shit. Had it really been well over one hundred years since he last saw Seinosuke? It seemed like he just saw him not even a month or two ago. At least the two of them were still on relatively good terms… right? Of course they were. It took a lot for Rose to hold a grudge toward someone and if ( or when ) he did then it was for all eternity. And Seinosuke more or less seemed to be the same way.

❝ How about yourself? ❞ the blond haired Shinigami asked in return. ❝ What have you been doing in your free time, hmm? ❞

          “My free time?” That’s a trick question in its own right, from the way Seinosuke made that terminology foreign in his reiteration of it. Free time. — What’s next? How’s your work-life balance? “I garden and cook, I suppose. Most of my free time remains dedicated to work-related activities, admittedly.” That much had yet to change in the century elapsed since their last meeting, it seemed.

          There’s a forbidden sort of curiosity lingering in the pause of the conversation, making itself known in the absence of casual banter; almost like a cavity threatening abscess if it would be allowed to persist without intervention. He wondered if it was selfish to make it evident amidst this exchange, like voicing an intrusive thought induced by a shameful lack of understanding: Why did you come back to this place?           Shouldn’t Seinosuke know the answer himself? It’s likely that the other man had his own reasons for returning, such as friends and the familiarity of setting... Or perhaps he simply couldn’t keep away? Was it a matter of intimacy, responsibility, or muse that had him returning? ... Seinosuke somehow doubted any inspiration could be found after a surplus of too much, but perhaps artists were more resilient than healers despite the similarities in their hands; What passed through them differed.

          Seinosuke’s a man of the clock and calendar, careful with his time and schedule and even more meticulous with his health than he was with his punctuality. Proper maintenance of his system was a priority, so he’d set off to bed in the evenings with the goal to achieve adequate rest that would optimize his kido once the sun glimpsed the horizon again as it always did.           Consistency was a key element and value, but not one that would surmount the requisite of his personal cell by his bedside before he could surrender to slumber peacefully. Just in case someone needed him in the dead of night, regardless of their knowledge of his habits. He’d only ever give out his personal number to certain people, after all. Doctor Ishida’s one of them despite their circling, like the roundabouts required to exchange personal contact information in the first place.

          The sun’s not due any time soon when Seinosuke found himself not quite lucid yet, but nevertheless reminded of the man and his dealings with him from the sound of an unexpected call awakening him in alarm. It’s a work night. Someone’s calling him, and something’s wrong. He’s uncertain if he suspected Ishida Ryuuken to be the name on the screen prior toward glancing at it for confirmation, but whatever sleep-dazed thoughts disperse the moment he accepted the call and measured the other doctor’s tone. Tense, like a bad omen; a monitor in the emergency room announcing fatality through failing vitals. Ishida had started off politely enough, but that’s not nearly enough anesthesia to numb the drop of Seinosuke’s heart in response. He wouldn’t have called if it wasn’t urgent, and there’s a mutual understanding of that. 

          A dedicated doctor’s prepared before any likely factors could prove further complications. He already knew his decision before the other man could ask.

          “I’ll do everything in my power to help you.” It’s spoken with his throat still rugged from sleep after curt replies that were better described as murmurs, physical signs betraying his determination as he, having already risen from bed, shuffled through the documents stored in his bedside dresser for the proper authorizations and what could be argued in court as such. He kept the call connected, phone pressed to his ear despite that not being as obligatory as he felt it was nor serving any other professional purpose now that he’s signified his planned course of actions. He could hang up; keep blunt and concise, leave it at that and go back to bed after a few phone calls. But he’s never been content with so little nor as cold as he seemed. 

          “I’m getting the papers for it, in the unlikely event they won’t allow you entry alongside me-- and I apologize, for not doing more with my anticipation of their insistence to obstruct you.” He’s uncertain what more he could have done, but the extent of his current efforts wasn’t enough to satisfy him. He’s not sure if anything could, but he won’t shy from further contribution. “I’ll pull some strings and make sure they know with certainty that you’re closely associated with my clinic, so their grounds of justification for casually imposing restrictions decreases. I can’t promise you that they’ll stop entirely, but I won’t stand by idly as they disregard your rightful permission of access. I’ll prepare more clearance for you, and revise it as necessary.”

          Once again, this man would shatter the silence of Muken with his illusory curiosities. Fallacious in his speech, Aizen would initiate and draw forth trivial talk to accent his idling with words strung out like an amble stroll taken beneath the darkness of the night sky, a futile attempt to shift the stagnant air of Muken with verbose substance and disturb the silent press of the passage of time.           Time. Did Aizen allow it to weigh upon him, its unspoken gravity at his chest to command and necessitate exchanging perceptions with unwilling conversational partners before the tedium could overtake him? He must have, with his insistence to commence discourse with a topic Azashiro saw no merit in the exploration of; with his need to disrupt infinity once it grew tangible. Falling short of heaven’s vacancy, this man ambitioned to fill the void of quietude, entertaining himself with empty toys. ( Was Azashiro a toy as well; another thing to amuse himself with at his convenience, another stepping stone of evolution to his advantage? It was likely, given the man’s character and inability to swallow ennui with dignity. What a hollow pride. )

          Azashiro did not grasp his purpose in doing so. There was no meaning in the act, no significance in Aizen noting an apparent tragedy. It meant nothing as it was.

          “Do not surmise that, in the act of expressing them to me, you would obligate me to take responsibility for your suppositions. I see no purpose in encouraging your propensity to subject others to your own private assumptions of them,” he said, and it was a curiosity in itself that he would respond at all. “I will not entertain you or your idle mind with any justification. Cast aside your subjective realities if you would seek out my truth, and speak without ambiguity if you seek a conversation with me.”

          Tragic, Aizen had said. What vague terminology, a dubious assessment.           There’s something tragic about you, suggesting the potential to be pitied.

          That’s undoubtedly a personal inquiry attached to that confident assessment. Seinosuke would comment on the inherent intimacy of asking someone why would they ever leave, if it were not for the magnitude of Ishida Ryuuken’s tone remaining as evenly aloof as ever. Steady and poised, an archer even without a bow nor sling of arrows at hand. He wondered if Ishida realized it himself, that composure and tendency of his to hit the mark. He’s curious if that was considered a strength in personal affairs by him, but he’d refrain from offering an ambiguously provocative remark to a vaguely personal question despite being well in his right to do so.

          “Most attribute the reason behind my retirement from the Gotei to greed.” The only shift in his expression was the subtle lift of his brow at the other doctor, almost translatable as why not you, too? Wasn’t that a satisfactory answer? “One could say I was rather limited in my choices as a military doctor. It’s not a glamorous position to hold forever.”           Not that he’d ever care for glamor, but he had tired out with every new generation of recruits brimming with that eagerness to contribute and belong eventually becoming disheartened; once-youthful, once-optimistic eyes hollowed out and made anxious, accentuated by hospital lights and the glow of kaido.           There’s an exhausting stigma about the Fourth Division that it was the weakest, and that never sat well with him; it lingered in the pit of his stomach and the strain of his wrists unspoken, that question of what was strength in this place, then? What’s considered strong if preserving life with value and respect for it was not?           That was simply the iceberg of his discontents. He’d let Ishida glimpse the depths of it, if only for the fact that his professionalism kept him from seeking sympathy especially given their individual histories. If only one could articulate their discontents without personal attachment associated in the act of vocalizing grievances, the weight of detailing pain that was not physical. Seinosuke’s certain the quincy held griefs of his own, but he’s been rather gracious so far. Just like an archer.

          “Long time no see.” It’s a lukewarm greeting at best, his own individual mix between casual and courteous that he’s been blending idly for the last century whenever he wasn’t occupied with his perpetual professionalism. Though rather dispassionate on the surface in relative comparison to those in the ranks of the Gotei who’d celebrated the returning visored being reinstated as a reunion, it wasn’t as impersonal as he would have liked for it to be.

          While he’s only known Hirako Shinji through encounters that bordered on professional and playful given the man’s convenient hypochondriac tendencies and Seinosuke’s own mild enabling of it whenever it entertained him enough, he couldn’t quite wash his hands of the responsibility he felt whenever in the fifth division captain’s presence. It’s a persisting struggle, dispelling the thought that circulated his head even before meeting any of the visored again: he was supposed to be there that night. If only he had been there that night—           ... But that was the past, wasn’t it? What’s more of relevance now was the fact that they were back. Not all of them, but some. He’s glad not to see Lisa among them. Despite his sentimentality toward his friend and fellow former lieutenant, it’s a reassurance and a comfort to know that she remained in the World of the Living. Far away from the Seireitei, with its shinigami and their service to deeply flawed systems Seinosuke was unable to avert his eyes from even in his retirement from the Soul Society’s military organization.

          Hirako Shinji had returned to the heart of it, though. Why? What was his rationale behind that? Why ever come back here, of all places? — What an enigma. It’s speaking optimistically to say that Seinosuke would be able to understand him.