Title: Life, in Greens and Browns
A/N: My Christmas present to my most awesomest and dearest Eloni! This is my first time writing a fanfic, and a GrimmNel one at that, so it's short, um, kind of subtle, and basically I'm really sorry for the utter hideousness and tragedy that is this fic OTL Anyway, I hope you do know that I love you very much and appreciate everything and all those times you've been there for me (even if this hardly-something-you-can-call-a-present doesn't show it)!
Merry Christmas bb! *superninjatackleglomp*
He sees red. Everywhere he looks, he sees red. Because to him, if death had a colour, it would be red. Like blood – coursing through his opponents', those fucking weaklings' veins, coursing through his veins. And it made every fibre of his being come alive, like bursts of electricity dancing just beneath his skin, charged, ready to strike, ready to kill. The adrenaline rush, the excitement of an imminent battle, the thrill of slicing through flesh and, if those fucking bastards were strong enough, having his own flesh sliced in turn. The struggle, seeing the last spark of worthless life in those dying eyes, the victory, he desired them all, lusted for it.
He was sleek - graceful, yet deadly. Like a panther. His primal instincts were honed, at the forefront, screaming at him, guiding him in sadistic glee, rejoicing in the bloodshed, satiated in the aftermath, the carnage, the onslaught, of the battle won. Because his existence, it was one governed with only one rule – kill, or be killed. There was no place for mercy, camaraderie, or any of those meaningless emotions that only served to drag and weigh their carrier down. It was weakness, and he loathed it.
These hands, they were made for battle, made to draw blood, made to kill. And his existence revolved around that – killing. He hated weakness, hated anybody and anything weaker than him. Doesn't matter who they are; he'd fucking kill them all. He was King, and anyone who stood in his way, or did not have the capacity to walk alongside him, in the path he's taken, they had no place in this, in his, world.
But then that ryoka, that fucking ryoka, embodying every single thing he loathed, that stupid honour, those fucking eyes, boundaries broken, propelled by nothing but those weak, debilitating human emotions, barged into this world, his world, and turned it on its axis.
Aizen, the Espada, they were gone. This life, as he struggled to stand back up, up on his feet, right in front of these ice-cold eyes, it was disintegrating. Everything was slowly crumbling, decaying into nothingness - broken pieces of history.
Except one.
He couldn't understand why. He still didn't. But against the backdrop of the barren, desolate desert, nothing but shadows of grey, that hair, it struck him; shades of blazing green, such a stark contrast to the death that surrounds this cursed, forsaken place. And those eyes, large and warm orbs, as if oblivious to everything that has ever happened in this damned world, their murky depths dark and brown, like earth after rain - they drew him in.
As he picked up pieces of his own life, that unfamiliar entity, it stood by him, silently, with a presence that was inexplicably fierce, yet gentle.
He never asked why – he wasn't sure himself.
Time, those nights, it passed them by, but, as he glanced to his side, to her, through the sands of time and its vicissitudes they survived, he thought maybe… just maybe, these hands, they were made to nurture, and not just destroy, life too.
He thought maybe... just maybe, this is what life felt like.