#hirako

It was the dead of winter, and there was nowhere to go.

Nowhere but home, with the sick little ones who cuddled up against their dad, who was now late for work.

You walked into the room with some hot tea and soup. You noticed your husband wasn’t even ready for work. He didn’t have the heart to move the sleeping kids from his chest.

“You are going to be late for the meeting,” you reminded him.

He put up his hand to silence you so you wouldn’t disturb the kids. He looked back down at the two little versions of himself, blond heads poking out from the blanket. His heart ached to see his little babies succumb to a seasonal illness.

Shinji was a supportive husband and father. He would drop anything, even a mission (if he could), to come be with his growing family.

Growing, with a third on the way any day now.

You set the meal tray aside and rubbed your expanding belly. Shinji was trying to protect you from the contagious illness and slept with the little ones all night. Now it was time for work and he did not want you to handle the sick kids alone.

“Listen, if you are worried so much, I can have Hiyori-”

“Absolutely never!” that certainly triggered an automatic response. He didn’t trust the rascal to babysit his own flesh and blood. Not because she would be mean or bully them, but because she would fill the little ones’ heads with ideas on how to harass their poor daddy. He could not tolerate another foot to his beautiful face.

“How about Lisa? Or…”

“I can miss a meeting. You rest up ‘n let me take care of….”. He looked down and watched the two stir in their sleep, slowly opening their little weary eyes. “Sorry. Was Daddy loud?”

The two little heads nodded at him.

One of them yawned, a tiny fist rubbing at an eye, while the other blinked up at him, already half-awake. He leaned closer, brushing a thumb gently over their flushed cheeks.

“Go back to sleep,” he whispered. “I’m right here.”

Work hardly mattered when the things that mattered most were suffering at home.

“I’ll call in. Momo can handle things.”

Aizen, who had been standing for some time now in the half-open door, waited a moment longer. Then, he decided to remind Shinji of his presence.

“I brought you something, Captain.”

“Well, come back with that later,” Shinji snapped without turning. “Can’t you see I’m busy.”

“I can wait.”

Sōsuke apparently did not want to give up.

“This will take a while.” Shinji knew all too well that Aizen could be very patient; nevertheless, he tried to discourage him a little, and thus get out of the whole situation.

A conversation with his two-faced Lieutenant was the last thing Shinji wanted to engage in. Especially since he finally had a moment for himself. No meetings, no missions, no paperwork due yesterday—in short, free time. But Aizen apparently intended to ruin the beautiful prospect of blissful idleness.

Shinji still treated spending time in the company of his Lieutenant as a part of his duty as the Captain—unpleasant but necessary. How could he not? He didn’t want to improve their relationship, nor did he want to get to know Aizen better. He knew exactly as much as he needed to—the man could not be trusted.

“They’re hard to comb out,” he added, seeing the futility of his previous hint.

As confirmation of these words, the comb stopped upon tangled strands.

“I can help,” Sōsuke offered, not lowering his intrusive gaze for an inch.

Shinji cursed under his breath. He was fully aware that neither Aizen nor the tangled hair would be easy to get rid of.

“Had I ever seen you with a stylish hairstyle, I might even consider your offer. But with that mess on your head, you’re not very credible.”

Sōsuke smiled faintly. Sharp remarks like that were nothing new for him.

“Forgive me, Captain. I forgot that of the two of us, you’re the one with good taste.”

“Not just good taste, but apparently a sense of humor as well,” Shinji scoffed, then sighed. “I really don’t know what is wrong with you, Sōsuke…”

Aizen, as if expecting such words, smiled a bit bolder.

“There are a great many things you don’t know about me, Captain Hirako.”

Shinji paused, stopped combing.

He measured his subordinate’s reflection with a judging gaze.

Aizen noticed that look, and walked a few steps closer to the mirror. Paused just behind Shinji’s back, too close for the distance to feel neutral. The reflection showed a fragment of his face—a face strangely foreign, unknown to Hirako.

And in that moment everything became clear.

The reflection, Shinji thought—that was what Sōsuke had always been.

Not a real person, but an illusion, a mirage.

Shinji felt a chill running down his spine.

“Would you like to get to know me better?” Aizen asked softly, voice almost tempting.

Hirako already knew a thing or two about mirrors—they were nothing but little deceivers, showing whatever you wanted to see.

They were drawing your gaze to the smooth, polished surface while the truth lay elsewhere.

And for Shinji, all the mirrors were always crooked.

Sōsuke’s brown eyes stared at him through the reflective surface. There was something hard to define in them. Some meaning, some unspoken question.

It was so convincing, Shinji could almost believe it.

And yet, the reflection was just a reflection—nothing more.

Shinji returned to combing his hair. He left Aizen with no answer.

There was no point in talking to a mirror.