A/N: Random one-shot that was supposed to initially be a drabble. ^^' I hope you enjoy.

A Little White Chess Figure

There is that distinct, faint, bittersweet taste of guilt resting unrelentingly on his lips, and he finds himself unable to stop smiling, albeit with a little bit more irony than usual, as he becomes progressively accustomed to the idea that shame, and greed, and lust, are such a familiar and undeniable part of him as is the flesh on his bones and the breath in his lungs. The darkness around him is hot and heavy with the palm of the summer: he can hear crickets singing softly in the distance, leaves whispering other people's secrets and affairs through the gnarly branches of their mother trees, and eyes, dozens, maybe hundreds, invisible, inhuman eyes, following him as he staggers down the path with the wonderful, warm weight of another body against his own.

"Can ya not fall asleep on top of me, puh-lease?" he sing-songs, not strictly or firmly enough to be taken seriously. The load against him just slumps further, two slender, stubborn arms clutching to his waist for dear life in order to keep the other from crashing on the ground.

"Mmm... No. Can't promise you that."

"This can't be a very dignified behavior fo' our residen genius. I kno' fo' a fact smart lil captain dun usually find themselves nodding off halfway to their homes."

Toushiro chuckles airily against him, not really making an effort to put more weight back on his clumsy feet and away from the pivot that is currently Ichimaru's side. Gin doesn't really mind. No matter what he says or how badly he feels the need to tease his companion to fill the silence surrounding their stumbling bundle of limbs, somewhere deep inside he can't ignore the feeling of just how nice it is to have the excuse to wrap his arm around the younger captain. It's always such a surprising, inexplicable wonder when it happens; when Toushiro allows it. To trace the slender, bony, ageless outlines of the child's frame, to feel the difference in their build, to compare wordlessly how delicate, yet strong Toushiro is against Gin's lithe, powerful, wiry structure…

…it's a guilty pleasure Ichimaru would do anything to experience.

After all, Gin is only a man.

He likes touching.

And he likes touching Hitsugaya-taicho, especially much.

"I think-" Toushiro's words tie up in a by now familiar knot of slurred consonants and vowels, and he giggles again, an adorable, innocent sound that he would otherwise frown upon and deny producing. Gin merely arches a mildly condescending brow at the unfinished declaration. He isn't going to pretend and call himself sober – there is definitely alcohol in his system, enough to eradicate the few remaining barriers that would stand between his needs and the common sense he has not to go too far with his young colleague - but with how much of a light weight the tenth captain is, it's no wonder that the little one has been far more deeply influenced by the sake than Gin is. The following morning would surely be an interesting one.

"God, I think I'm drunk."

"Ya'll be fine, chibi. We are practically there," Gin promises, making sure to hold the boy tightly against his side as he steadies the smaller male through a flight of stairs, down a narrow corridor, and then round the corner to where Toushiro lives. The expected fumbling with keys and half-assed check for foreign reiatsu ends up with Toushiro collapsing on the nearest sofa where he solemnly declares his inability to move. Gin sighs but doesn't immediately turn to leave. In other situations, he would've done - there is never a good enough reason for him to justify staying with the boy even a minute more than absolutely neccesary - but the sake has made him feel warm and just the tiniest bit light-headed, and he likes the touch of recklessness it's given him, the leisure, with which he now regards Toushiro's slender, sprawled form and that small hand, still squeezing, involuntary, a single white chess piece.

The King.

That had been the game, hadn't it? Every fallen figure, equal to a shot of sake. It had sounded funny at the time - Gin hadn't thought Toushiro would actually agree to the conditions - but he should've known the child would. Toushiro had never been very good at passing up challenges. His pride, his stubborness, his insecurities would never let him be that guy – the person who can't man up like his elder co-workers, and stand up for himself when provoked. It takes a hell of a lot more confidence to back down from a dare, than it requires bravery to enter a physical fight.

Toushiro doesn't deal with ridicule very well, Gin knows.

Toushiro doesn't deal with people very well, either.

That's why the fox likes him so much. He likes that soft, fragile core of vulnerability the kid has so crudely covered with dozens and dozens of blatantly transparent shields. Gin likes how easy it is to see the cracks.

Gin likes to make some cracks himself, if he can help it.

Right now… the cracks are millions.

"D'ya need any help?" Gin offers without thinking, and then cringes, mortified by his own question. Rather than a snort and a dismissal, he hears Toushiro groan against the cushions and rub his nose into the sofa's softness as he possibly attempts to activate the functions of his intoxicated brain.

"Please," he mumbles at last. "Would be greatly appreciated."

Gin's breath becomes a shuddered exhalation as he takes a step forth, feeling like a debased human about to commit his first sin. He grasps Toushiro's ankles without thinking and slips the sandals and the socks off, tossing them somewhere to the side, too impatient to get to the better bits. He takes a hold of the boy's forearms very gently, and helps Toushiro back up in a sitting position, pale, spidery fingers grasping on the kid's chin and keeping his head from lolling to the side. The young genius's breathing is heavy, his body already half-asleep, and his eyes are shut, chasing after drunken dreams that are still obstinately slipping away from his lax clutches.

"It's too hot…" Toushiro slurs miserably, raising his brows but refusing to make the effort to actually look. Gin's hesitation is only a brief and annoying bug on the horizon that he easily swats away, and the next minute he is tugging the captain haori off as dexterously as his mildly disorientated and anxious hands allow him to. He goes for the folds of the black robes without giving himself a chance to think, and in the meager midnight light, one smooth, white shoulder, a long neck and a part of a nicely-sculptured chest bare themselves to his eyes.

This makes him halt.

It makes Toushiro halt, too.

Somewhere in his drunken mind, the younger captain must've felt something alarming as his previously shut eyes crack open, finding Gin's through the trembling darkness and anchoring themselves in the angry red that is usually so well hidden under Ichimaru's slit gaze.

There is only silence after. Gin realizes his thumb is under Toushiro's jaw a second too late to pull back, and he can't make himself move away anymore, keeping his digits around the nape of the boy's neck, and his palm wrapped loosely around that fragile, elegant throat, and his knuckles just where the wisps of messy white hair graze his callous skin every so slightly as though to remind him, cruelly, of just how young and unaware the other must be.

But is he really?

Is he really that unaware?

Gin feels the doubt sneak into his mind like a persistent and noxious worm, plunging through his veins, through his bones, pumping into his tiny, cruel heart, and then deeper into the arcane corners of his tarnished soul. Toushiro's eyes are on him, and although there is no specific change in the boy's behavior, it seems to Gin that the pulse under his touch grows faster, the skin – hotter, the irises – darker. And then, like a well-designed twist in an old Greek play, a flash of that amusing, yet also highly moving vulnerability, softens the ends of the 10th captain's features, and his lips part, his brows quivering towards the middle of his forehead.

The movement is so subtle that anyone else in Gin's shoes may have missed it. Toushiro leans in the tiniest bit, and Ichimaru's fingers become steel hard around the boy's jaw, restricting the already timid enough motion.

Toushiro instantly looks away in shame.

Gin's hand drops down, landing thoughtlessly on the kid's knee.

"Neko-" Gin begins, but he stops when he sees his companion's eyes shut tightly, unwillingly. Toushiro's chest heaves a sigh and his shoulders slump, making him look smaller, younger, weaker.

So easy to break.

"You are so good at this," Toushiro murmurs, pained, thought at the same time strangely astonished as he continues to stare at some spot on the floor, far away from where Gin is crouching in front of him. "Making me feel-… Like a fool. A fool and a loser."

"Ya're not a loser," Gin chides in a soft tone, tapping on Toushiro's knuckles to draw the attention back to the chess piece the boy is still holding. "Ya won that one. Even with all those shots of sake in yer system."

"You know that-… That isn't what I meant." Toushiro bites his lower lip for a moment, then turns his head back to look at Gin, almost imploringly now. "Just-… Go."

"Kitten-"

"Go. Go, just-… Just, I want you gone."

He hears it there – that forlorn and oh-so-viciously resented defenseless part of himself Toushiro so tries to hide – and something in Gin seems to snap then, and he looks down, and he sees – for the first time ever – all the tiny, bleeding little cracks in his own shields and masks. His eyes find Toushiro's, and a momentary understanding seems to pass between them – one that neither can express into clear words.

One that, even after hours of discussion, ends with the same conclusion: It's for the better.

Gin knows.

Toushiro knows.

And yet it happens.

Gin's hand finds Toushiro's cheek again, and then their lips meet: a soft, fearful, surprisingly gentle contact that lasts a tiny, impenetrable eternity. Then Gin pulls back, just enough to look into the smaller male's eyes, and he sighs against the still palpable flavor of the kiss, and the unhealthy, toxic impact it is already having on him.

He feels weak.

His legs feel unbelievably, pathetically weak.

"Do ya get it now?" Gin asks, a hint of something odd and desperate grazing the surface of his voice despite the efforts he puts into staying calm. He feels Toushiro nod mutely against the palm of the taller man's hand.

"I get it," Toushiro utters back. Then leans for another kiss.

Gin closes his eyes and gives in. He is, after all, only a little white chess figure.