Nnoitra had never been one who was too fond of waiting, or of peace...or anything, really. He was an asshole, and proud of it. But, all the same, he knew somehow that his dying wish had been fulfilled: that Nel looked at him as he fell, the life leaving his body before the carcass hit the ground with a bloody thump. He wanted her to know that he had died the way he lived, and lived the way he died; he was proud, arrogant, brash, and powerful enough to back up his claim to fame as the Fifth Espada.

He was a Hollow, which was supposed to be how he felt; he was a child of damnation, a son of slaughter and a master of revenge, but there were two things that he craved above all else. The first was battle, war, an unending fight that would make him grow stronger and stronger until none could challenge his might. The second was, strangely, to hear the voice of Neliel Tu Oderschvank...no matter the situation. Whether it was a delicious cry of pain, a grunt or some other non-word of communication, or even just her regular speech, he wanted to hear it. He cherished it. Were he sentimental, or emotional, he might have even said he loved it.

Of course, that brought up his own infamous words, and he could hear them in his mind even as he began to choke on his own blood: We kill what we love, what we hate, and whatever falls between. If it exists, it will be destroyed; that was why he fought. He wanted to rip, to tear, to kill his enemies and bathe in their still-warm blood, to rend the flesh from their cooling corpses and devour it. He lived to fight and kill. By his own logic, however, he lived to die. It was that simple; all that exists will be destroyed, and he existed.

She knew that. It was why she had always let herself be challenged, and why she would leave him alive. It had infuriated him at the time, and continued to irk him now. She was more powerful, supposedly, so she should have killed him and been done with it! Instead, she broke his arms and legs before leaving him in the desert to crawl back to Hueco Mundo...and he hated it, even as he loved her.

Yes, he loved her. He could admit it to himself, at long last, that he really and truly cared about the green-haired beauty who had ever been his superior. A warrior he was, and a hollow one at that, but he loved her...those damnable words haunted his mind once again: we kill what we love.

He'd failed, though. He loved her, but couldn't kill her. He certainly played it off well, masking his concern with sexism and his love with challenges, but some part of him could still think that she might have figured it out before she was left in the form of a child. It wouldn't have been that hard, he knew; he'd never been any particular kind of good at masking his real emotions. It was a black and vile curse, especially for someone who wasn't even supposed to have emotions in the first place...he doesn't care, though. He never has, and never will. Even as he lays dying, he will not repent his undying adoration for Nel.

Not that he would ever tell her or let her know, of course, because that would mean breaking their game. They were rivals, partners, used against one another to train and grow strong; to tell her of his love wouldn't just go against his own code, because it meant that he would truly have to kill her, but hers as well. She had been a champion of self-strength, so he'd proven time and again that he had what it took to keep up with her in her prime...so, naturally, she'd just been harder and harsher on him. He'd accepted it, though, because it meant that she would always be nearby. She would always be there, talking to him. It was more likely that she would berate or lecture him, but the sweet melody of her voice was enough to keep him on his battle-high for just a little longer; he'd simply blanketed his happiness with rage, soon coming to associate them with one another, and rushed in to attack the object of his affections...the seed of desires that could never come to fruition.

He didn't care about her physical form. Not too much, anyway; he cared that she was in a childish form, so strange to his eyes, but wouldn't have minded any differences about her hair or eyes or anything else. What mattered was her spirit: fiery but calm, protective yet violent, a daughter of darkness whose power ripped through the land like her lances would shred their targets. She was death and doom, to his war and wrath, and he'd always shivered a little whenever their naked steel had crashed together...that was simply how he was.

But now he waited for a day that would never come, where Nel could slay him with her Lanzador Verde and end his eternal suffering amidst an eternal void that wasn't voided of anything. He went through the air, dying, breathing his last breath, when he heard the childish whisper of his name.

"Nnoitra..."

Perhaps he was selfish for choosing to pretend that her voice was two octaves lower, or that her body was that of a woman's. Perhaps he was just a wishful thinker, making up the belief in his mind that it had been his love that skewered and thrown him. Perhaps he was both, or neither. Only he could tell you...but, of course, he's dead.

The name had flown across the white sand, reaching his dying ears, and he looked to her with a sad sort of twinkle in his eye. Though he no longer had the energy to reply, he still managed to mouth her name back to her. He had to assume that she understood, but he heard the voice one more time before his mind went blank; it wasn't his own, but hers. While he's not sure if she actually said the words, or if it's just a memory from times long gone, he takes the words with joy that he's not supposed to feel.

"You did well, Nnoitra."