#aizen angst

His eyes would stare into yours, hollow and still. His lips, slightly parted, only whispered one thing: weak.

He called it out into the static space. The only sound breaking the eerie silence was his voice, heavy and mocking, as that one word repeated in vicious tandem. 

Weak for not letting go. 

Weak for what you felt. 

Weak for what you could not do—what you could not bring yourself to do—and deep down, you knew that weakness would ruin you. 

Just like Aizen did when he unraveled the Seireitei to a state of near collapse. 

They were ill-prepared for what he had set in motion and only desperately held on to the hope Ichigo and yourself brought. The Substitute Shinigami was an unknown and powerful variable, while you, as the Arrancar’s prisoner, had access to their inner workings. 

Aizen didn’t like it when you referred to yourself as a “prisoner” or his actions as what they blatantly were: kidnapping, so you continued to do so at every chance possible. It irked him—that small ounce of defiance. It made a man like him, weighed by hubris, sink a little deeper. 

The slight twitch of his lips every time—a signal of his discomfort— made you smile. You could still get under his skin. You revelled at that fact. Any chance to fight back was an opportunity you seized; Even though fighting him physically was out of the question, you at least had that slight over him. 

You didn’t ask him to take you with him. You didn’t ask him to spare you. And you certainly didn’t ask him to hold you captive, sequestered away while war rages on in the land above. 

You didn’t ask for any of it. So, you would make him pay for it in any way you could. 

Despite that, there had been a question nagging at the corner of your mind since the day he swept you away. As fitting of its subject, it asked something treacherous. 

The fact of the matter was: Aizen had spared you. He had taken you from your home and turned his back on everything you knew, yes, but he had also kept you safe—and not only safe, but well-fed, pampered, and shielded away from the violence. 

Violence he perpetuated, you reminded yourself. 

It did not matter how fancy your room was. It was still sealed by four impenetrable walls—a cushy cell made impossible to escape. It was a prison forged to hold its inhabitants captive.  

Aizen may not have shackled you with chains, but freedom was as lost to you as the man you once knew. 

Despite that, you had technically not planned to kill Aizen. Not today, at least, which is why the sight of his blood dripping down the dagger in your hand makes you scream. 

The shock of the sight jolts you awake. You find yourself springing up in bed, sweat beading on your skin as the nerves slowly dispel. The sheets are crumpled up in your fists and you try to let go, but the tension hasn’t yet dissipated. 

It was another dream?

Even in dreams, he haunts you. 

This time, however, it felt too real. It was strange. The vividness was startling—bordering on traumatizing—and you can’t shake off the foreboding feeling clinging onto you. He was right in front of you. Pale, cold, and lifeless. 

The door clicks open and Aizen strides in with a palpable air of urgency. There’s a crease in his brow, indicating worry. 

“A nightmare?”

You don’t even reprimand his intrusion. You are far too exhausted by what you just experienced. 

“Yes.” You run your hands over your face, trying to rub away the stress.  “Or maybe a very lovely dream.”

“Care to share it?” He inquires. 

“With you?” 

Aizen nods, moving closer. His steps are light and smooth, almost like he is floating. Maybe he is. 

“I want you to leave,” you whisper. The words are soft and unhurried, but they carry an unbearable weight. 

“Will you be alright?”

You scoff. “I am in a prison of your making. It doesn’t get any more secure than this, right?”

“I heard you scream,” he replies coolly. 

“Yes, well…” You lean back onto the headboard and stare up at the towering, empty ceiling. “If we’re both lucky, one day you will hear far worse.”

Aizen doesn’t leave. Instead, he makes his way even closer, until he hovers at the end of your bed. 

“What did you dream of?” 

Why are his words spoken with such gentleness?

“Your death. Your murder.”

A pause. “And it scared you?”

“It delighted me,” you lie. 

If he’s bothered by your words, he doesn’t show it. He just nods and makes to leave. Out of habit, you reach out a hand to stop him, only to freeze as you realize what you’re doing. Your grasp falls short and you watch as he ignores the gesture—for your sake or his, you aren’t sure—and turns his back to you. 

No more words are spoken as Aizen vanishes, leaving you to cold silence and muddled thoughts. 

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

“You keep me confined here. Why?” 

The question has been in your mind since the beginning, and your curiosity has finally reached its boiling point—alongside your irritation.

Aizen looks up from the book he had been reading and tilts his head in consideration. 

“Are you concerned for your safety? I promise no harm will come to you.”

“Your promises mean nothing,” you say bluntly. “Answer the question.”

He closes the book in his hands, but not before smoothly folding a corner crease to keep the page. He sits at the opposite end of the large coffee table, facing you directly. You had been reading something of your own when Aizen decided—much to your protests—to join you. It has been an hour of silent reading and uncomfortable tension—at least on your part. Aizen could not look more relaxed if he tried. 

“Let me ask you something then-”

You interrupt him. “I asked first.”

Aizen only smiles. 

“Indulge me?”

Again, you ignore him. “Why not just kill me?”

His smile fades. “I don’t want you dead.”

“Why?”

“So many questions…”

“And you still haven’t given me an actual answer!” You snap. 

He’s still infuriatingly calm, as always. You resent the fact you can’t leave—that every sense of your space is dictated by him. You want to be away from him, more than anything. Staying here with this man, stuck in this beautiful, suffocating room, is a tremendous effort. 

His continued silence drains you. You slump, anger whisked away and replaced by exhaustion. 

“Do you want me to hate you?” You whisper. 

“Quite the opposite. I would never hurt you.”

“So you say,” you reply dryly. 

“It’s the truth.”

“Is that what you told Hinamori before you stabbed her and left her for dead? Hm? Is that what you said to Central 46 before slaughtering them all?”

He sighs. “You can believe what you want.”

“Oh, but I can’t, can I? Thanks to you, I can’t even trust my own thoughts, much less my beliefs.”

“Your beliefs are your own to have. I would never take that away from you.”

“Ah, right. Just my freedom then.”

“What is freedom in a meaningless world?”

“Enough with the philosophy, Aizen. I’m sick of running around in these circles, chasing my own tail in search of answers.” You lean forward and hold his piercing gaze. Eyes so full of wisdom and judgement—how easily you could get lost in them again, just like before. “Tell me why.”

Something flickers across his expression, but whatever it is, remains unnamed. 

“This is how I guarantee your safety and secure my weakness.”

Your confusion must be evident because Aizen continues. 

“I can predict many things. I can plan and organize down to the very last detail—until the future unfolds along the seams of my script. I can prepare in every way imaginable. All of that… and I still cannot control everything. Not yet.” He drums his fingers on the armrest, frustration lacing those last words. “Your safety couldn’t be guaranteed unless I secured you myself. With that, I eliminate my weakness as well. With you here, contained in this fortress, I have no need to worry about you on the battlefield.”

You stare, unable to make anything of his confession. 

“Are you saying I’m your weakness?”

“As far as I understand.”

A short pause. You nod. 

“Good.”

He quirks a brow. “Good?”

“Yes. It is good I make you weak. It will make it easier to kill you.”

Again, he only smiles. 

“I look forward to dying.”

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

“You always act like you know everything—that everything is all a part of your plan.” You look up at Aizen through tear-filled eyes. “Tell me, was this a part of your plan?”

The blood is real this time. It is warm and sticky and runs viscous lines down your forearms before pooling at your feet. You press your palms against the gushing wound in an attempt to staunch the bleeding, but it’s no use. Doing so is as useful as putting a single bandage on a severed limb and hoping it’ll grow back. 

Aizen is leaned against a wall with his head slumped against your shoulder. His skin is a startling shade of white and sweat beads on his forehead. The sight makes you panic, and the panic makes you hyperventilate.  

This isn’t  supposed to happen this way. How is this even possible? This is Aizen, of all people—the closest thing to a God the world has seen. How could Aizen be this shivering, weak mess bleeding out in your arms? 

The blood won’t stop. His clothing is soaked a deep red, forming a dark ring in the area around his chest where a hole has split it open. The sight makes you nauseous, but your desperation to save him overtakes that feeling. 

“I need to call for help. Comms are cut but maybe if I-”

“No.” His voice is so quiet that, for a split second, you think you’re hearing things. 

“What?”

“It is inevitable.”

“What are you talking about? You are not dying like this. You’re too smart for-”

He cuts you off again. “Which is…” he groans as he shifts back, head lifting to look at you through lidded eyes. The pain is tense in his face. “Which is how I know it is inevitable.”

Somehow, he softens. “You do too.”

Tears roll down your cheeks as you face him—and reality. 

“I know,” you whisper. 

His head falls back and he lets out a pained breath. Your hands are still on his chest, stained red with his blood. 

“I regret I could not be what you wanted.” Each word is quiet and strained. Your heart clenches in response. 

“For a while, you were,” you reply. You can barely speak the next words without choking on them. “I did love you. The ‘you’ that was presented to the world, at least.”

“Good.” He nods. 

“Aizen?” Your voice trembles. The acceptance is numbing. It is turning you to stone. 

“Yes.”

Do me a favour and die well. Die… happy. It will lessen the pain.”

“Yours or mine?”

“Can’t it be both?”

“Of course.”

“Good. Keep that promise for me, won’t you?” 

…

“Aizen?”

You wait, but an answer doesn’t come. 

It never comes. 

It takes his death for you to realize that your relationship with Aizen was a frantic undoing of legacy and trust. It was doomed from the very beginning—just as anything he touched would be.

Perhaps death came for Aizen because of that—because it was the only thing that had the power to free him from the confines of a world too small for him. 

Perhaps death was exactly what he needed.

When Sosuke comes home, dinner's already prepared for him, resting on a tray at his usual seat at the dining table. All of the food is still warm, recently made in fact, and he sits to eat his dinner before he needs to go see you. As he’s eating, you’re showering, the warm water comforting against the winter cold that seeps through the walls of the house and clings to your skin. Since the beginning of your marriage, the two of you have never eaten together, aside from business events and meetings with each other’s parents.

By the time you’re in bed, dry and relaxing against the headboard with a book in your hands, Sosuke knocks on your door.

You tell him to come in.

“Sorry for interrupting. I wanted to let you know that I will return at 8 to pick you up for tomorrow’s gala.”

He shuts the door behind him, leaving you to leaf through your novel before you go to sleep, repeating his words in your head, letting his voice wash over you, until you're no longer conscious.

In the morning, you wake before him so that you can prepare him breakfast and coffee, as well as his bento for lunch. You never worry about waking Sosuke because he sleeps on the second floor, whereas you live on the first, and he is at the far end of the hallway where the noise you make in the kitchen can barely reach him. It doesn’t really matter, though, because he’s already awake, washing his face and replying to emails that have accumulated overnight. And like dinner, you retreat to your room, and Sosuke comes down to eat. You try to pick up where you left off in your book, but really, you’re straining your ear the entire time, waiting for the click of the lock as Sosuke shuts the front door behind him as he leaves for work.  

The rest of the day is also spent alone. You clean, grocery shop, and tend to the garden. Sosuke sits in meeting after meeting after meeting. But this daily monotony is cut short by the gala occurring at night.

You had received a few packages in the mail within the last week that you can finally unwrap. You drag the boxes out of your closet, and with a razor, rip through the tape with clean swipes to reveal ribboned boxes with printed anagrams and brand names. Sosuke had specifically asked you to wear this outfit, and you’re excited to see what he has chosen for you this time.

On the drive home, Sosuke is on a call with his secretary, going over the gala’s attendance list, highlighting connections he will be introduced to, existing partners and collaborators he cannot forget to greet, competitors that will try to get under his skin. When he arrives, you’re outside, and as you make yourself comfortable in your seat, he offers his compliments.

“Cream suits you.”

You reply that it's all thanks to his excellent taste.

He resumes his conversation, and you turn your cheek to look out the window. And like dinner, like breakfast, you retreat into your own mind, and Sosuke continues to work.

An hour later, the two of you arrive at the venue, a massive hotel tucked away in a mountainside. As instructed by the organizers, Sosuke pulls up to the gated entryway, where staff members come to open your doors and take the car key away to park on your behalf. 

You step out, heels gently scraping the gravel and pavement, but you do not stand until Sosuke makes his way over to your door. He holds out his hand, which you take, and once you’re up, he wraps an arm around your waist and pulls you slightly into his side, smiling gently as he brushes the side of your cheek with his other hand. You reflect his expression, tilting your face into his touch.

“It will be a slight walk uphill, my love.”

Shaking your head, you mumble that you can manage.

As soon as the two of you step into the lobby, in its marble-floored, chandelier lit, dark oak-accented grandeur, Sosuke is approached by several businessmen, most older and executives of their own respective companies.

“Sosuke-kun – ah, wait, not anymore! Aizen-san, how are you? And is this your wife?”

If you recall, this person seems to be the treasurer of a large chain pharmacy in Singapore.

You bow, and Sosuke shakes hands with the treasurer.

“Please, call me Sosuke, my father is still the acting president, sir. And yes, I am glad to finally acquaint you with my wife.”

These pleasantries continue throughout the rest of the night – with the COO of a lab equipment manufacturing company, three local hospital directors, a representative of another chain pharmacy, and the founders of a biotech startup from the United States. You are led by gentle tugs from one conversation to the next, introducing yourself when you're prompted, occasionally fetching a bite of food or a flute of champagne, always returning to Sosuke’s side by a loop of your arm through his.

“Sosuke is a great husband, isn’t he?”

Currently, you're at a corner in the large conference room where there are drinks and other refreshments. An older lady, in her mid-50s or so, stands next to you, as you grab a glass of water, taking care not to crease Sosuke’s blazer which you hold in your other arm. She's the wife of the dean of an elite nursing school, and you recognize her as a long-time friend of the Aizen family. Diligently, you offer the glass to her, which she takes with a slight dip of her head, and with a gesture of your hand, you compliment her knitted shawl.

“My granddaughter.”

Though you would prefer to return to Sosuke, leaving such a conversation so abruptly would indubitably damage his reputation. Instead, you inquire the lady about her granddaughter’s age, favorite hobbies, and health. She responds enthusiastically – barely five years old, enjoys knitting and origami, very healthy – before shifting the conversation back to your relationship.

“Sosuke’s always been a caring boy. He must love you.”

You chuckle behind your hand.

“I love him very much.”

By the gala’s conclusion, a fog has descended over the mountainside, ghosting down its slopes and forested ridges, as well as much of the highway leading out and towards the city.

Sosuke’s satisfied. He was able to meet the people he wanted to see, assess the relationships he’d been investigating, and schedule a few tours of factories he’d been planning to visit. Once he goes home, he can move onto next steps. He will have to shift a few meetings around for tomorrow, but they were low priority anyway. He also has to review the documents for that recent inspection that was conducted, though he highly doubts anything of concern came up. Another late night.

As usual, car rides home are quiet. There are no more calls for Sosuke to take, and when he glances at you, you’re staring out the window, hands folded over his blazer that you’ve draped over your lap, chest slowly rising and dropping with deep breaths, stuck in your own daydreams.

In reality, you’re reminiscing over your bold proclamation to the older lady. How daring, almost presumptuous of you, to so arrogantly lay claim to your feelings for Sosuke. But you’re relieved that the elder was understanding and sympathetic of your bursting emotions, and she had prayed for your relationship to last long and well.

For as long as you can remember, Sosuke has been your whole life. You partook in etiquette classes, biology and chemistry tutoring, dance lessons, flower arrangement competitions, fusui lectures ever since you were young, as was expected of the daughter of the head of the Biotechnology and Pharmaceutical Examination Division of the national Japan Patent Office. Your father managed all vaccine patents, so it was no surprise that your hand in marriage was crucial for many opportunists.

At the time, you didn’t know that your life would be dedicated to Sosuke and your role as his wife, but you dutifully listened to your father, only hoping that all of your effort would pay off. After all, hundreds of thousands of women have done it before you. No matter who your husband will be, you promised your father that you would become a wife no man would have to worry about.

In seventh grade, you were introduced to Sosuke at your omiai, though there really wasn’t much to consider. His father is the president of one of the largest pharmaceutical companies in the country, and was often crossing paths with yours. There was no doubt that the two of you would get married, given the strategic business advantages and both of your inabilities to deny your parents.

Therefore, your marriage to Sosuke was speedily arranged.

Many of your girl friends growing up, all of similar class and privilege, all held a certain level of contempt or resentment. And you did, too, for a long time. But ever since you laid eyes on Sosuke – his tousled brown hair, pleasant smile, gentle eyes, sturdy frame –, you were convinced you had been blessed by the deities, presented with the best husband of a stranger anyone could ask for.

And his dignified and measured confidence has only furthered your affections for him. He only asks, never demands, when he needs something from you. He always finishes the meals, coffee, tea you prepare for him to the last bit. He brings you to business functions, like tonight’s gala, even though you know he’s busy and doesn’t need to.

You shake your head, releasing a soft sigh. It must be that one extra sip of alcohol you had, because your audacity seems to have no end. In your mind, you apologize to the older lady for what you’re about to do, for wasting her genuine blessings and wishes.

You’re almost home, car changing into the left lane and crossing onto the small bridge that leads into the residential area where the two of you live. The fog has made its way here, too, settling as a layer atop the water and mugging the streetlights lining the sidewalk. The weather forecast mentioned something about it snowing over the weekend.

“Stop the car.”

With a quick check in the rearview mirror, Sosuke pulls to the side.

“Is something wrong?”

You unbuckle your seatbelt and grab the door handle to let yourself out.

Sosuke glances at the clock on the dashboard.

You step out, swaying slightly in your heels before regaining balance, and walk over to the rail of the bridge. The water's dark, and you wonder if anything can survive in the icy, rapid currents underneath.

Deep down, you know Sosuke only calls you his wife in front of others. The two of you haven’t embraced each other either, not even the night of your marriage. His secretary doesn’t come to distract you with lavish gifts or day trips. Sosuke doesn’t even look your way unless absolutely necessary.

Turning around, you walk back. You catch him checking the time again before he looks up at you.

You exhale, watching the snowy puff of your breath separate and dissipate.

“Sosuke, you’re very kind.”

“Are you cold?”

“I met your family friend, and she asked if you loved me.”

“I see. We should head home.”

“I love you.”

Silence.

“You go first. I will be back soon.”

You shut the door, and for a second, through the tinted windows, you can make out the harsh look in his eyes. He stares at you for a few brief moments before he pulls away, and you watch until the crunch of the road underneath the tires and the beam of the tail lights are no longer so distinct, so stark, in contrast to the still haze, the dark waters below, the steeled grip you have on his blazer.

winter event masterlist