Dawn
This love - make me believe that you're the one
Never give up - our day has come
I never felt that this could happen to me
So many lonely days and nights
I never knew that you were waiting for me
Hope was out of sight
This love - I'll never throw it all away
Now that you're in my life to stay
- Judas Priest,"New beginnings"
Light…
Light fills the room, colouring the covers with gold, surrounding the dark figure beside his bed with a glimmering halo. It's summer afternoon outside, filled with the smell of lemon trees.
He's not afraid though every breath draws him closer to the inevitable. It's just another boundary he has to cross…
Warm sunlight on his cheek. A warm hand holding his own. The pain is fading… all is fading. What's left is but the golden gleam on the inner side of his eyelids, revoking memory of these eyes, so very dear to him.
"I am one step closer."
He dies.
He opened his eyes and saw the fluorescent numbers of his alarm clock in front of him. 6:48 AM. Twelve minutes too early. Again.
He sighed quietly, turning over onto his back and recalling his dream — the last one in the whole series of strange dreams he'd been having for some time already. In some of them he was fighting monsters of various shapes, a sword with a hooked blade in his hand, and he was victorious. In others he was walking down the streets of an ancient town that surrounded a precipitous hill – sometimes alone, sometimes accompanied by comrades he knew and who were close to him even if he couldn't remember their names after he woke up. Sometimes he was dressed in black, wearing a sun-like symbol on his sleeve, but it also happened — and he seemed older to himself in those dreams — that he wore a white cloak with a black sign for "three" on his back.
And in the last one… Well, in the last dream he met his end, and yet it couldn't be seen as a nightmare, not even when he'd seen it so clearly as last night.
Still, no matter what the dream was about, he woke up from each of them with a feeling of immerse longing towards something indefinable, yet of great importance… but not today. This time, as he suddenly realized, he rather felt some kind of… anticipation?
He had no chance to muse upon it any longer: the sharp ringing of his alarm clock broke him out of his reverie. Dreams will have to wait, he decided with a wry smile. Now he should take care of reality…
He rose from the bed. The shade in his window was pulled down, so the room was still dark even if the sun had already risen some time ago. Unless it is raining, he thought sourly. After all, it had been raining for hours last evening…
He took a step forward and almost fell, tripping on something that turned out to be a pencil, left forgotten on the floor. He cursed quietly and scolded himself for leaving such mess, before picking the item up and furrowing his brows.
Oh yes. Once again he had been drawing late into the night. Ummm…
He took a look around and found his sketchbook, left on the floor as well (On the floor!, wailed his orderliness.) He shook his head with a sigh, picking up the sketchbook as well. He had missed another lesson. If it went like that any further…
He turned some pages, filled with more or less satisfying drawings, mostly of people and flowers. The sketches weren't that bad, he had to admit; and yet he couldn't escape the feeling that he wasn't committed to the classes enough.
And, actually, it didn't apply just to the drawing classes…
He was about to put the sketchbook down, when some loose sheets of paper slipped from between the pages. He caught them instinctively before they fell down on the bed, and blushed fiercely when he looked at the first one.
A slender face smiled at him mischievously from the sketch, loose strands of hair half-obscuring the squinted eyes. The hair was silver; something the drawing didn't show.
He fought off the urge to crumple the paper and throw it into the corner. It would be childish, after all — and he was twenty-two. He was an adult…
He flung back the sketchbook and the drawings onto the bed, and headed for the bathroom. Yet, though he tried to focus on here and now, that playful, foxy smile was really hard to forget.
And it kept distracting him.
Here and now, he ordered himself firmly, getting into the shower. Still…
A week, he thought, turning the water on. It had been a week since…
He was late. Actually, he couldn't be more late: when he finally reached his destination — breathless, soaked and somewhat muddy (what had gotten into him to go by bicycle in such weather?), the classes had already ended, and his group was leaving the building. For some unknown reason, especially the girls seemed quite excited; they were whispering to each other more fervently than usual, and most of them were blushing.
Usually, he wasn't one to muse over his friends' elations, as he didn't want to be nosy, but this time he creased his eyebrows, running down the corridor. What were they supposed to do on today's lesson, actually…?
Lost in thought, he didn't notice another person coming from the opposite direction, until it was too late. He almost stumbled, with his nose buried in a jacket's soft fabric, but a pair of strong hands caught him in time. He smelled a faint fragrance of cologne and instantly realized the awkwardness of whole situation. He stepped back abruptly.
'I'm deeply sorry,' he uttered quickly with a deep bow. 'The classes… I mean… I was in a hurry, and…' he began, trying to excuse himself, yet broke off almost right away, feeling that he was acting like a fool. Or like some kid from an elementary school…
'Well, well, what d'ya know… I've hunted a drowned rat,' he heard suddenly and straightened up. The stranger was looking at him with a wide smile, squinting. He couldn't be more than thirty years old, and yet his hair was unusual shade of silver — definitely not one you see every day.
'Must be that fringe of yers,' the man continued in rather amused tone. 'It gets into these pretty eyes, and lo! the disaster's ready.'
He felt the blush creeping onto his cheeks, while the stranger casually brushed said part of his hairstyle away from his forehead, tucking it behind his ear. His smile widened even more.
'It's bad to rush around headlong,' he said with conviction. 'Somethin' may be lurkin' for ya round the corner, and what then?'
How was he supposed to answer to that? He had no idea. It was the first time someone treated him so familiarly, and so unusually favourably at the same time; not to mention the fact this someone was a perfect stranger. He dropped down his gaze.
'I… Umm…' The heck, what was he to say? Should he apologize once again? Or perhaps… thank for the advice, even though it sounded rather… offbeat? Damn it…
'Take care, then,' said the man carelessly, taking advantage of his momentary hesitation, before starting off. 'Bye-bye!' the stranger added in a clearly happy tone and disappeared round the corner, leaving him confused and dripping on the floor in the middle of the corridor.
A female voice broke him out of his reverie. Upon hearing his name, he turned around and saw their teacher, standing in the half-open door of the nearest classroom. He smiled weakly. She was a true art enthusiast, and a nice and understanding woman — quite different than their literature teacher, who had a habit of throwing various items at latecomers…
He was about to speak to excuse himself for another absence, but the teacher beat him to it.
'What a pity you came late today,' she said, regret evident in her voice. 'We have a new model… A truly fascinating man. He has just left, you must have passed him by on your way here…'
He was in the middle of a polite nod — he was still thinking out a proper apology — when the meaning of her last words struck him.
"A new model…"
"You must have passed him by…"
"Has just left…"
Oh no. No. Impossible…
Damn it… What a pickle.
Well, after all, I had the right to be surprised, he thought, turning the water off, and reaching for a towel to dry his hair. Actually, he wasn't sure if he had been more shocked by the information or relieved because of his coming late. Nevertheless, he felt uneasy at the thought of the silver-haired man posing for them — even fully dressed…
He realized that, once again, he was blushing, and scolded himself inwardly. Come on, it's not like you fell for him, is it?
Well, of course it wasn't. However, it didn't hold him back from drawing another and another sketches of their group's new, ehm, model. He'd even dared to depict him in clothes from his dreams, and, much to his surprise, the result had turned out to be surprisingly good.
But then, to tell the truth, the stranger had been giving him lots of chances to take a good look at his appearance. Since their unfortunate cra-… encounter in the corridor, he had been meeting the man almost at all possible occasions: at the subway, at the library, at the art shop… even at the swimming pool (when he had come to the conclusion that, against all appearances, he himself wasn't at the border of anorexia yet).
It might seem natural then that the man had become the topic of his works — yet it wasn't like that. Even taking the circumstances into consideration, this man wasn't the only person he'd been seeing lately — and yet he didn't draw others…
A shiver run down his back, and he realized that he had been standing naked on the cold tiles for some time already. If he wanted to catch a cold, then he was well on the way to it.
You're a grown up man, he reminded himself firmly. Stop acting like an infatuated middle-school girl!
Wait a minute. Had he really just thought that…?
He bit his lip, starting to dry himself vigorously (and trying not to pay any attention to the fact that his cheeks seemed to be burning). No use beating about the bush: he had either found his lifetime muse, or he was slowly going crazy. And, actually, that second option seemed much more possible…
He hung the towel up, put on his jeans and looked sceptically into the mirror over the washbasin. Or rather: he tried to look, for his fringe chose this very moment to drop onto his left eye, half-obscuring the view. He instinctively tried to brush it aside, yet to no avail: the strand of hair clearly wasn't going to stay in place behind the ear, stubbornly reverting to a position where it limited his field of vision to the maximum.
He gave his reflection somewhat exasperated smile. Sometimes he really had the impression that his hair had a life of its own: all attempts of subduing it failed, and his fringe was the hardest to cooperate with. It was really surprising that he hadn't fallen over because of it yet, as the stranger had suggested…
Again…!
Damn it… Where did these thoughts come from? And what was with that strange mood of his this morning?
He took a deep breath, resting his hands on the washbasin, and closed his eyes. Here and now — the words repeated like some kind of mantra every day. Did they still have any effect? There were moments — like now — when he truly doubted it…
His squeezed his eyelids shut. However it was, he didn't have time for such musings right now. A long and, as it seemed, busy day awaited him. If he didn't want to be late once again, he should better hurry.
He brushed his teeth and, putting his shirt on, he headed for the kitchen to eat breakfast.
On the table top by the window lay a persimmon. A very orange, very ripe persimmon — the only patch of colour in the whole kitchen. Upon seeing it, at first he stopped dead in his tracks, just to intentionally head in the opposite direction moments later, seemingly giving his full attention to the kettle. Still, the attempts to ignore the fruit were… well, fruitless. It was there, with its shiny, orange rind, the peduncle and all the rest. And, for some inexplicable reason, it was slowly getting unnerving. When he almost cut his finger while trying to slice the tomato — why did it have to look so similar to that nasty stuff? — he couldn't bear it any longer. He put down the knife and confidently walked up to the window.
The persimmon lay in its place — and, if it wasn't just a piece of fruit, he might have thought it was trying to draw his attention. He nudged it distrustfully with a slender finger. He disliked persimmons — actually, he hated them — yet he wasn't able to tell why. Who knows, maybe it's some trauma from a previous life…, he thought, a corner of his mouth turning up in a smile.
Why then had he bought that thing if the chances he'd eat it were second to none?
He creased his brows. The previous evening he had gone to the convenient store to buy rice, and…
'They don't have it, ya see? Neither dried, nor roasted. And what's poor me gonna do now?'
He knew that voice; he felt he would recognize it anywhere, even though he had heard it just once before. That was why he didn't raise head, stubbornly picking over the carrots.
'These carrots, for example.' This time the voice came from a much closer distance, making him gulp. 'The carrots are okay… They have lots of those healthy little… things. And they really, really great for one's colour — but nothing can equal a dried persimmon, I tell ya… And yet they tell me "we don't have it, sorry, sir", and so I can kiss my dessert goodbye. At least there's plenty of fresh ones…'
He dared to cast a quick glance to his left (one of a few situations when he blessed his fringe). He was not mistaken: the silver-haired man was deftly choosing the prettier pieces of dark orange fruit and he was clearly ready to share his point of view with him. It was rather perplexing: firstly, he didn't share the man's enthusiasm for persimmons; secondly, he still vividly remembered their first encounter, and… well, he didn't know what he was supposed to say, if he should say anything at all. To tell the truth, he felt like discreetly withdrawing; yet, unfortunately, it was not possible.
He blinked rapidly, seeing an impressive persimmon right in front of him. Quite stunned, he looked at the pale, smiling face behind the fruit. He still felt light-headed after the man's "persimmon speech", and now this…
'A delicious species,' said the stranger in an expert tone. 'Ya should try it…'
He sighed. He had accepted the fruit; perhaps because he had been too dazed to refuse, or maybe because it would have been rude not to take it. As a result, the persimmon lay in his kitchen now, looking more real than everything in its surroundings. He tapped his fingers on the table top. That was puzzling as well. Recently, the reality more and more often seemed but a pale dream he should wake up from, the sooner, the better. The days went by, gray and dull, though seemingly full of various activities, while at night his dreams took him to the world filled with colour and life. Just as if his place was somewhere else… somewhere on the other side.
He stared out of the window, not really seeing anything and letting his thoughts wander. He couldn't recall a time when he had felt like in his dreams… except the moments when he met…
Him.
He felt the blush once again creeping onto his cheeks, yet he couldn't argue with the facts. And the fact was that the silver-haired stranger and his mischievous, disquieting smile seemed more alive than most people who surrounded him… as if the man was the only real person amidst the sea of ghosts.
He closed his eyes for a while and then, acting on a sudden impulse, he grabbed the persimmon and brought it to his lips. Perhaps… perhaps if he ate it, he would understand more; as if the persimmon could work the other way round than the mythical pomegranate, letting him remember something he had forgotten about and he wasn't even aware of…
He was about to bite into the shiny rind, when his eyes rested on the calendar, hung by the window. His attention was drawn by the small square with today's date, where he had scribbled "books!". For a moment he kept looking at it, not sure what it meant, but finally…
Damn it! The library! Was he really so absent-minded that he had forgotten about it?
He absently put the persimmon back on the table top, the existential musings from before a moment leaving his mind almost immediately. He glanced at the clock. 7:32. His classes started at nine o'clock; still, the library was, without exaggeration, at the other end of the town. He would never make it on time by bike; he had to go by bus. He didn't like it too much, yet it seemed the most suitable option…
In ten minutes he was ready to leave: with the persimmon, taken for heaven only knew what reason, in his bag.
It was a clear morning — a nice change after a few days of rain. The only remnants of yesterday's downpour were the puddles, glimmering in sunlight. He squinted. The light was that particular shade of gold, typical rather for a late summer afternoon than an April morning. In some unusual way it fitted his joyfully excited mood he was in since he had woken up.
To tell the truth, he couldn't recall when and if he had ever felt like that. In his life there wasn't much place for sublime emotions. His waking hours were mostly filled with studies (he planned to start another specialization this year), part time work and various additional classes. His so-called 'social life' was practically non-existent; after all, to had any, first he would have to have friends. As for his family… well, it wasn't the right time for such musings. Still, he didn't miss them, and, after all, it wasn't the core of a problem.
His life lacked something important, and the more he tried to somehow fill this emptiness, the more he became aware of it. Though he tried to spend every minute of his existence actively and creatively, he had no goal at the end of the road… no dream that would make his life meaningful. He lived from day to day, here and now, like some kind of a chrysalis that still had to transform into a butterfly (Though in my case, he thought ironically, it would probably be a moth.).
Today's morning, however, was different. Though he tried to ignore it, he still had the feeling that a change was coming… something was going to happen, and the unusual golden light, that gave the town an otherworldly feel, made him all the more convinced about it.
All of a sudden he recalled the dream he'd had the previous night, also bathed in similar light. One step closer… One step closer to what…?
He heard the screech of tires, and quickly jumped back to the side-walk. He saw the driver tap his forehead meaningfully and nod towards the nearest traffic lights. The red one was on. He gave the man an apologetic smile, scolding himself inwardly. An accidental suicide wasn't in his plans, after all…
What was interesting, he realized that he hadn't even been afraid. Not because he wasn't afraid to die — he just felt it wasn't his time yet…
He rolled his eyes. Really, he was walking down the street, wondering about the time of his death. Was that normal?
He shook his head, coming back to reality. He was almost there, at the bus-stop, situated by one of the main arteries of the city. Fortunately, he could jump out of the bus next to the library and that was why he had decided to take it; the train would make him walk a considerable distance. Today, he was in hurry, although - he suddenly realized - it didn't matter as much as it should. Tending to be a diligent person, he often scolded himself inwardly for the airiness that marked some of his doings, yet today the possible being late for the classes didn't bother him in the slightest. He had rushed out from home, indeed, but now, that he walked the street, he was under the impression his legs were leading him not only to the scientific library.
He stood at the bus shelter, squinting at the light reflected by the droplets of yesterday rain. He looked into the timetable and was happy to see he shouldn't wait long. Again, his mind flew to the places he kept seeing only in dreams. His heart pounded, and in the same time an inexplicable calmness settled upon him. For a moment, he felt that he could touch the truth behind it. That any moment now he would tell the dream from the reality. He reached into the bag, and his fingers tipped the smooth peel of the persimmon. This time he didn't wince in the disgust - quite the contrary, he felt he was filled with the warm he hadn't known before. Persimmon... meant... remembered...
A slight yet distinct fragrance of the cologne drew him out of his reverie so abruptly he felt dizzy. He turned his head, this time looking directly. Of course. The well-known stranger. Smile on his lips, he was standing in the other corner of the shelter, holding a bag under his arm. iThe persimmons, no doubt/i, he thought distracted, focused on the rapt elation that suddenly filled him. The inward feeling of warmth grew stronger. What was happening to him? More than anything in his life he was sure that never before had he been so shaken. And it wasn't an unpleasant feeling, he decided right away, although he was under the impression two forces were fighting in him: the logic anxiety and the completely incomprehensible joy. His hands were trembling, and he had to clenched his fists. He knew that, if nothing changed, something terrible would happen to him...
The atmosphere of the subdued etherealness, accompanying him since he had waken up, was violated by the sound that tore the reality almost physically. Guided by his instincts, he got his eyes from the man, although - he suddenly realized - he could spend the eternity just contemplating his face, and looked in the direction of the noise. His eyes grew wider, absorbing every one detail. A truck, carried by the inertial force, was approaching the bus-stop. Much too fast and uncontrolled. The previous sound must have been a hopeless attempt to stop the vehicle, made by the driver, whose pale face was visible behind the windscreen. The truck tipped up and moved inevitably...
The world stopped, and the time lost its matter. The seconds - now he knew these were the last seconds of his life - stretched into one infinite finiteness. He really wasn't scared. Could the death be so peaceful? Almost like someone watched over it.
He saw the truck, approaching inch by inch, and its big wheels that froze in another futile attempt of stopping the machine. It didn't matter.
This life... was only borrowed.
In his final moment he realized his real life had always been somewhere else.
Some other time.
... and with someone else.
Moving as slowly as the time itself he turned his head to the man... he turned his head towards...
Gin.
And he knew Gin was looking at HIM.
At Izuru.
After what seemed like thousands of years, their eyes - eyes of Kira Izuru and Ichimaru Gin - met again.
He reached out and he knew he wouldn't make it in time, because the time was already done.
However, the last thought he had, giving in to the time, was firm as steel: Together.
Warm light brushed his eye-lids. He frowned, trying to escape it. Birds have been chirping for some time now, singing out their joy: so simple, yet meaningful. When had he last heard it...? He couldn't remember. He was under the impression it had been an eternity ago. Something had changed. Incoherent sensations, feelings and thoughts, and shreds of information kept invading his mind, and the threat of chaos became real. He clenched his fists and ordered himself to concentrate on what seemed most physical: the blades of grass, tickling his cheek and neck. He lifted himself slowly, levering on his arms, and cautiously opened his eyes. The long hair obscured his view, and he brushed them aside. He sat up, breathing deeply, his sight focused on the ground. The air was filled with the scent of flowers and the more distinct smell of resin. He took a couple of deep breaths, his eyes on the green leaves that felt cool under his fingers. His heart was slowly regaining its normal pace. He turned his head.
Surrounded by the clover, so close, there was sitting Ichimaru Gin, never taking his gaze off him.
Izuru closed his eyes again, while his heart started to beat so fast that the breath could barely keep up. He pressed his hands to the chest and lifted his eye-lids once more - fearing he wouldn't see him.
But he was there. Sitting still with arms around his knees. The silver hair over his forehead. An intent look in his shiny eyes. His figure radiated its own light. To Izuru, he had never seemed more perfect before.
The light was dazzling, and Izuru blinked to see clearly. It was like a dream. He could do absolutely anything in this dream. He could do what he wanted. He shivered; his arms had been trembling some time now.
Slowly, he rose - only to fall down to his knees next to the man. He was looking only in these wide open eyes that glistened with gold. He felt the warmth coming through his white clothes. He clenched his fists again, paying no attention to the fingertips digging into his skin. His lips parted. He wanted... A moment yet... Only one moment. He swallowed, looking into Gin's face, so close his own.
Gin didn't even stir. The whole life was gathered in his eyes.
Izuru took a deep breath, breaking this magic moment with regret. He did have the whole eternity at his disposal, but... But some things couldn't wait longer that they already had. And, at the same time, he was under the impression they had parted only yesterday. He hadn't forgotten the feeling come forth by Ichimaru Gin's presence: the feeling that was his only reality. Thousands of years could have passed, but this one had been lasting: the most natural realization that here was his place.
"I'm not your second-in-command any more," he spoke, "I won't call you a Captain. So, listen... Gin." Did he remember his voice from so long ago? Would he had enough courage to speak like this that time?
Gin was listening.
"People change. The souls change. And Shinigami change as well." Stray gust of wind blew through his hair. "The passage of time strengthens even the weakest branches and turns the frail resolutions into the hardest steel." His chest ached with a single memory of hope. "I waited for you thousands of years and I remember what I wanted for that eternity. I know what I want know," he said with calm, despite the lump in his throat. "Never again I'll let you leave. I'll stay with you till the end of the world, and longer. You are a part of me, and I want to be a part of you, but only if you let me to."
He would have to get used to Gin's serious expression, the one Gin looked at him now.
"I have never deserved you..."
Izuru put the finger onto his lips, although he could listen to his voice for ever.
"I doesn't matter any more. I don't regret anything, even the most torrid times," he said softly, lowering his eyes. "Had everything been different, we might have never met. Had everything been normal, we might have never grown so close. Had I not... lost you that time... I might have never realized..." For a moment he couldn't speak. "No-one has ever been so important to me. I have never... loved anyone else like I love you." He raised his head again. These were the words he had wanted to speak loud for so many years. "I love you, Gin," he repeated with the surety of millennia. "I am whole yours, just like I was then, only million times more." He tried to smile and failed miserably. "Don't be scared. Don't reject me any more, Gin."
Gin kept silent, but, for some reasons, his silence didn't worry - it was filled with the bird-singing, the hum of the stream and even the warmth of the sunlight. He seemed to get blurred in the forest scenery, yet never before had he been so real. He blinked, as if dazzled by the light stronger than the one coming from his gold eyes. He lowered his head and then he lifted it again. Izuru followed his every move, absorbed his every reaction and trembled in the joy that filled him and that he still couldn't grasp. He looked at Gin's silverly hair falling down on his forehead, the face of the skin paler than his own, the well-known features - Gin Ichimaru was sitting right before him, the same as he had been times ago. Only the smile vanished from his lips, replaced by something so fragile and gentle: the most sincere look. Gin's face had never been so open before.
Izuru clenched his fists again. He desired... oh, how he wanted to cup this face and slide his fingers into this hair. To come closer that he had ever been. Yet he remained unmoving and calm. It was not his decision. He could only wait. And he was able to wait, as long as it took. Somehow.
Finally, Gin moved, becoming the part of the scenery that pulsate with life. He rose, still looking Izuru straight in the eye. Something flickered in his gaze, and then his face got smooth with the certainty. Slowly, he lifted his arms and embraced Izuru, pulling him closer. The thin lips touched Izuru's mouth so light, as if it was the moonlight that brushed it, and then rested on his hair with the greatest tenderness. Izuru hid his face on Gin's chest, his fingers clutching at the fabric, and didn't hold back his tears any more.
"I've finally found you," he spoke, his voice strangled. "I had to believe, all that time. There was nothing left but belief. Yet now, once you're here, it feels like a miracle."
All his determination was gone. He felt just like long ago: the withdrawn boy who looked in the sun and savoured at its secure warmth. Gin's arms hugged him tighter. He sighed as the tension left him. He didn't want to be anywhere else. Never.
"I hoped..." he whispered. "I hoped you would want me. That I mean something... After all, you died for me." Izuru raised his head and looked serious, although he couldn't see clearly. "I am in debt I will never pay off."
Gin shook his head. His silver hair glinted in the sun. His embrace grew even tighter. "It was my debt to you," he said softly. "You have always been by my side. Had it not been you, I would have never gone this far. If not for you... I would have never learned... what it means to be happy," he whispered.
Izuru rested the head on his chest, again. His heart was beating like mad, but, he realized, it should be like this. He was breathing fast. He trembled. His eyes were still stinging. Yet, at the same time, he was sure he had never experienced such a perfect peace. It was happiness.
They continued like this - Izuru clutching at Gin, safe in his arms - making the promise then would never again...
Izuru lifted his eyes and looked Gin straight into face, once more marvelling at its beauty. He cupped it, stroking the delicate cheekbones with his fingertips, and then craned his neck. He pressed his mouth against Gin's, for the first time in any life, and decided - somewhat incoherently, for he started to feel dizzy - that every life brought something new. For a moment, he was under the impression Gin tasted with persimmons... and then he ceased thinking because Gin kissed back. Izuru slid the fingers in his hair, whose softness made him shiver again. He moaned. Gin pulled him ever closer, and his lips grew wider in a smile. He pressed his forehead against Izuru's, and his eye-lashes brushed against his former vice-captain's brow.
"It's me who is all yours," he spoke in a tone of fulfilment and unwavering certainty. "Finally," he added in a lower voice and smiled. "Only yours," he whispered, his lips on Izuru's temple and moving towards his ear. "Izuru."
Izuru shivered, feeling the hair stood all over his body. Gin pushed him onto the grass and leaned over him, obscuring the sun. His face was all smile now, and Izuru smiled back. Gin drew closer, his silver hair almost touching the clover. Izuru sighed as in his eyes he saw something he could never expected to see.
"I believe it's obvious," Gin started in the mischievous tone, but there was an unusual seriousness under his words, "but I want to say it anyway." His eyes were beaming. He had never seemed so happy before. "I love you, Izuru."
Izuru only looked at him. A part of his mind flashed with a thought that Ichimaru Gin - master of irony, jokes and remarks - was able to say something like this... just like this. And the world hadn't ended. The buzz of the bees filled the moment. Gin kept smiling.
"Who could not love you?" he added as if he wanted to explain it, then he shook his head and laughed.
Izuru swallowed. The time of tears was gone. The time of joy was starting. He reached out and pulled Gin down in a firm move. They had the whole eternity for themselves, but he didn't intend to wait any more.
Their day had come.