At first glance, it would look like there was only supposed to be one person in the room. A person with many privileges, perhaps, but nonetheless, it looked like only one person should have been in the room. However, as Izuru saw it, the room was cold. Not physically cold, because there was by far enough blankets to last him through two winters, but cold in an empty way.
There should have been more than one person, which was the problem. And he was promised tonight that there would be more than one person sharing the futon that night. He shouldn't have been able to stretch the entire way across it without encountering a warm mass next to him, smiling in the darkness because he never stopped smiling. The pillow should've been wet from sweat, not tears that he wasn't sure he was admitting to shedding just yet.
Promises, apparently, meant nothing just as most other emotions to shinigami. He didn't even want to be a shinigami now; he was only here for Ichimaru-taichou now, and right now, it seemed meaningless. But he knew in the morning, as he showed up for work, the sorrow would cure itself, only to repeat the following night. It was a cycle: a kind smile, a murmured apology complete with a kiss, and another promise for a full bed that night. Another empty promise.
He wondered if Ichimaru-taichou and the others mistook his timid nature for also being dim, but he wasn't. He knew all the hints and the ways that his captain flirted, and there was no doubt in his mind that the silver-haired man was two barracks down, sharing a futon with Aizen-taichou. It tore him apart inside, both breaking his heart and putting him in a tight spot.
Their relationship had never been officially declared. It had been one graceful swoop of Ichimaru-taichou's neck – his first kiss – which had quickly escalated – which was his first time – which was generally repeated most nights. And then, as spontaneously as it had begun, it had cut off and was replaced with these empty promises that he continued to believe. Maybe because of that, he had been too assumptive to think that what they had actually meant anything. Who was he, Kira Izuru, fukutaichou of the third division, to tell his captain who he could be with? It wasn't even just on a business level, but on a personal level, too. Who was he as a man to tell Ichimaru-taichou – Ichimaru Gin - what he could do?
But, the tiny part of his mind that he had shoved all his assertiveness into squeaked, "I love you" generally means something. "I love you" was a three-word phrase, that with enough repetition became dull and almost gibberish sounding. But that hadn't worn off yet; three words could still make his heart leap and a rare, confident smile spread across his face, if only briefly.
"Izuru," Gin had whispered that first night, eyes barely open but still flooded with passion, "Please do me just one favor."
"Anything, Ichimaru-taichou," he had murmured, voice tired and eyes drooping.
"Love me forever."
And he would. Even if Ichimaru-taichou would never love him back, even if every promise he made was empty. Even if it was always Aizen-taichou before himself, he at least would keep his promise. And one day, perhaps Ichimaru-taichou would have an epiphany and come back. Until then, he was nothing without his taichou.