I do not own Bleach.

R&R

Enjoy!

collage 3: daisy chains

Before you there is nothing. With you there is spring. After you there is the grave.

I cannot remember my life before you overruled it.

Let's face it, I wasn't exactly thriving when I met you. You found me face down, tasting sweaty dirt and eating weeds.

Then you crowned me with daisy chains, and I never looked back.

So, I cannot truthfully say that I'd be better off if I had never met you, Gin.

But sometimes, I lie, trying to convince other people that I am both very drunk and, conversely, very sane.

But you and sanity never kept company—you're a force of nature, nuts and wild, your hand in everything just like spring.

Consequently, my thoughts of you aren't sane, distorted as they are.

Seen through rose colored glasses.

Is it wrong, Gin? Is it so very wrong that I die a little every time I deny you? Is it wrong that sometimes I pretend you're still here?

Because without you, I'd be dead—dead a hundred springs ago. So, I can't be better off without you because I wouldn't be anything at all.

So here I am, Gin, looking down at the last stack of paperwork. It's 5:39 in the morning, and I should be feeling some serious pride right now, reveling in my uncharacteristic industry. But, I don't.

You stole my pride as easy as picking petals—effortless yet unforgivable.

Right now, I am staring blankly at the inter-division memos detailing "the detainee's" hearing, judgment, and sentence. There are about 50 pages devoted just to you—your cup runneth over, you seedy bastard.

I need to sign this damn thing to say that I have been informed of your impending doom. I have the right to beg on your behalf, I have the right to question you, and I have the right to grant your final request.

They are giving me full access. Apparently, I'm special, Gin. I wonder how you failed to notice.

And in this stack of urbane articulation—all highly official, professionally distant —I discern a trend. A subtext, if you will. 'The prisoner is fucked,' it reads over and over and over. Truth be told, it's odiously boring.

Oh, I almost forgot. Truth, Gin, is a reflection of actuality. I clarify, a service rendered to you, dear friend, just in case you forgot. Or rather if you never knew at all.

Due to paperwork's mind-numbing repetition, I saved you for last. You always liked bit of variety in your flower arrangements, and the list of your crimes does credit to your range. It's truly staggering; your propensity to ensnare everything you touch, to sow the seeds of despair without even trying. I wonder how much longer this list would be if we included your crimes against your fellow schemers; doubtless, you ruined them, too.

On and on, the list goes on for ages. The extent of your work so prolific, I have to squint to read the fine print.

But that wouldn't be a problem for you—through narrowed eyes, you see the world. I wish I had been enough. A bit more than I am. Then, you would have had to open those ceil eyes wide just to see how much I loved you, how I bloomed to best effect when you smiled at me.

I shouldn't have to read this. I already know what you are. And I can't say "have become." And I can't say "turned out to be." Like I never knew. I would be a liar just like you.

But, perhaps, no more a liar than I already am.

Because I deny spring every year without you.

What a legacy—my inheritance, I suppose—an education in the art of double-talk. Knowing how and when to kill with softly spoken lies. How to weave a lovely vine then use it as a noose.

Because I live a lie, right? Isn't that true? Or is that a lie, as well?

I can't keep track anymore. I have forgotten who I am supposed to be, who I was before you gave me flowers.

I'm not even on this list, so, overall, I'd say you're showings pretty weak. Just like your defense because you never gave one. They questioned you, and you sat there in your cells just smiling to yourself. I'd bet my life you were bored to tears.

But you don't cry—not ever.

Gin Ichimaru.

Sentenced to SoulDeath.

Well, I am all astonishment!

Or am I grimly satisfied or secretly pleased? Resigned or mutinous? Suicidal or giddy? Placid, gleeful, dismayed, misguided, guilty, validated, mystified, conflicted?

Or all and none of the above at the same time.

Which one will it be, Gin? Don't you remember, "There's too many purt-iful flowers, you pick one for me."

So, which one do you love best?

Final Request: "Let Ran do it when spring comes."

Better pick fast because it's coming quickly, Gin. Because you will see my face too soon.

Damn.

I hate you. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you.

My mantra. My saving grace—just like you—my saving grace.

"AHHH," I exclaim, because the mantra is a piss-poor replacement; it doesn't grin like you do; it doesn't go around handing out bouquets to blue-eyed street-rats.

Tears.

I will not been reduced to this. You told me once, "My Ran does not cry." I drink in the face of unpleasantness, finding fuzzy springtime in the bottom of my cup. I wave when you walk away because I know as sure as grass is green that you'll come back. You promised.

Gin.

You said that you would never make me cry.

Betrayer. I should have known you were lying

Deserter. When you said you'd never leave.

Murderer.

I am a child again, and you're smiling, holding out carnations like they alone would keep us alive. And I think to myself, "Silly, all I need is you."

That's not sane.

You're suffocating me with those dead daisy chains. Something exquisitely twisted, woven bits of my soul like so many dried petals. Never to bloom again, aged and withered. Death by happy memories—it is beautiful somehow, to die with grin plastered on my face.

Comforting to know that we'll share smiles one last time before I kill what's left of us in the spring.

Request by Rangiku Matsumoto

A/N Ceil is a hue of blue. If you what to know what it looks like, look it up on wikipedia (they have a nice color wheel).