Luppi/Grimmjow – Fixation
Rating: M
It's obsession. Before the curtains fall shut and his time is at its end, Luppi wants to cross of the reasons he hates Grimmjow.
There's a thin line between love and hate, some say.
The line far thinner than it appears.
I've never been confused with the matter. I'm not foolish like some.
There's no line for me to waver between.
I've always hated you. Don't get confused or dumb.
It was never love.
Never.
But maybe to some, it was.
I hate you.
I hate you and I want to kill you.
I'm sure that doesn't surprise you. Nothing does.
I hate you and I want to kill you. I want to. I might even die doing so, but at the very least I wish to try. I want to twist my blade into your neck and sever your organs, slice the skin off bone. I want to hurt you. Pity. For I feel I might just have to wait for my turn to make a move. If the others don't reach you first beforehand, that is. If they won't, I will.
I have a feeling there's a line for your death that stretches far more than the plains of Hueco Mundo ever can. I don't like waiting in line. I enjoy being first, cutting in, cheating. Anything as long as I come out on top. I want to swoop down and rip your head off your body, watch you bleed and squirm in my wake, begging for forgiveness and mercy. Impossible. Still I dream.
You would think it's funny. Such inspired childish fantasies shows how much of an effect you have on me. You make my blood boil, my skin prickle and my eyes shine and my mind to forcibly entertain the possibility of your death each time I look at you.
They don't like you, I've noticed. Our brothers, our siblings. I've seen the way they look at you when you pass by. Your strides focused and body indifferent to their looks. They damn you with their eyes. They're disgusted with your presence. You know what they all think, but it doesn't bother you one bit and that bothers me in return.
How can you be so immune? So uncaring? So cold? They don't care for your strength. They don't care for you. They hate you like I do.
They hate you.
But you don't seem to care. And that makes me hate you more.
I want to kill you. But I don't think that's going to happen. It's not, is it? No matter how much I wish. It's a sad pity, so distasteful for me to harbor this useless desire. Yet I can't help it. I want to sink my blade into your skin. Let my Trepadora run itself across your veins and pierce into your cocky flesh and watch you bleed. I want to sheer all that absurdly colored hair off. To cut those equally-strange coloured irises out of your eyes and save Ulquiorra the trouble of your existence. Not because I like him, but because I hate you.
You know I hate you, yet you don't care. And, that again, just makes me hate you more.
I want to see you die, you smug bastard. Huh. Amusing. It's unlike me to use such words, yet I can't stop myself. I hate you this much. Loathe you with all my soul and wish nothing more than for you to burn. It's never been a game to you. Not like it was for me. It was innocent. Everything was innocent before it grew on its own and become more than just a game.
It's not a game now, because it's not fun anymore. It was always a war that you had set out from the very beginning. You don't hide it either: you want to kill me. You want to hurt me. You want to hunt me down, pin me against the wall and make me feel the fires of hell with your very own hands.
Mhmm… But I can't kill you and you can't kill me. At least, not yet. I know how much Aizen-sama favors you, even more than Ulquiorra. You were his first, his favorite, his prize. I sound like a jealous lover almost, attempting to catch you before you fly away, because you are in Aizen-sama's favor and not mine. How foolish. How stupid.
I'm not jealous, I hate you.
I think you want to kill me because I don't call you by your title, not like I do the others. Is that it? Is that why you're hurting me? Haunting me and my dreams, giving me the delicious urge to end your life each day and sleepless night. I almost want to laugh without the slightest trace of humor in my voice, let the echo reverberate throughout the room in hollow sweeps. You're mean, you know that? Your face plays in my mind and I wish to tear my hair out to get you away, to damn you like the hellish soul you are.
I'm not mad, I hate you.
I insult you but in retrospect, I insult everyone. That doesn't make you all the more special. But in a way it does. Because you are far more different to me than the others. You're important because I've set out to hate you, to kill you. My teasing and my insults are able to cut through flesh like shards of ice and make you bleed. I strike out with venom to hurt you with but the use of clever words and strings of deception. It never seems to. You're obstinate as you are strong. My words just bounce themselves of you, you cut yourself out of my woven silk and I hate that. They never seem to have any effect. I hate how even when I've ascended and became granted the honor of your former position there are still whispers of your unmatchable strength, save for the five above you without the inclusion of Aizen-sama, Gin-sama and Tousen-sama. I hate that. I am not weaker than you, I am stronger than you. I don't care about you.
I don't care, I hate you.
But now it's too late. It doesn't matter anymore.
Face the light, Luppi, you're dying.
What else is there to care for?
You.
Even in death I'm thinking about you. The irony hurts because I wish you were the one dying, you were the one bleeding in my place.
I'm staggering to the floor. I've spoken too much and this is my punishment, my outburst has received a reward and this is it. I like to play games and you know of this but this time I've gone a little too far. Pushed a little too much and you cracked, you broke. Even I know it. I've angered you though you won't show it. You want to punish ime/i, and that makes me wish to laugh. And I catch myself before I almost do, but my voice seems to be caught dead in its throat when you do serve my punishment.
You bastard.
There's a gasp from the girl who I had threatened to kill earlier and an inclination of breath from the others. Does she pity me? I don't need her pity. I need no one's. My insolence has gone too far this time and even Aizen-sama knows this. He won't save me, the others won't either. They just watch on as I die, fading from existence.
I sink to my knees, and you pull your arm out of me with a sickening thud without the slightest care after blasting me with newly regained strength in the form of a beam of cero. It sears my skin and burns and I'm knocked to the wall with a gasp, only luckily managing to avoid its strength. My eyes are wide with more surprise than fear, with more shock than hurt. It hurts. I'm going to die.
It hurts.
You fucking bastard.
I don't care, I hate you.
It hurts. I'm dying. I know it. It's not as painful as I think, as everyone makes it out to be. How dramatic, how boring. I wished to go out in a more flashier style but this suits me. Pathetic me. Pathetic Luppi. I need no one's pity. I'm strong. I'm no longer the sixth, but nonetheless.
I'm dying.
Fuck you.
Do you care? No? Then I hate you.
I want to stand almost. I want to taunt you by still being alive and watch your face contort into a gaze of infuriation as you beat upon my drained body, so after you can watch me with that ice cold gaze of yours that has captured me far more than I wish to admit.
Stand up, something tells me within.
I want to. I wish to.
But I can't, can I? My legs won't wok and I'm still far too frozen and absorbed to move.
You're dying, Luppi. Stand up. Don't give him the pleasure of your death.
I can't.
Tsk. How disappointing.
Pity.
Distasteful.
Boring, Luppi.
You're dying.
Am I?
He's watching you.
Stand up.
I can't.
So now, what does it matter?
It's over.
Heh. I know.
There's only numbness now; a stiff feeling of hollowness left in the arm's wake. It feels almost… empty. Strange. It's odd. My eyes are closing shut now and I let myself go, falling into the dark abyss. Death. How fascinating. I'm ready. I know I am. But beforehand, my mouth slowly parts and I whisper to no one in particular, amidst the darkness that has set already before me:
Hey, Mr. Sixth of the Espada?
I hate you.
I hate you Grimmjow Jaggerjack. I hate you.