He doesn't hate. He's never been a hateful man, not really. He's just…well, he's only a little bit mad. Cra-zy, as they call him.
Gin Ichimaru leans in the shadows of his room, his chin supported by long, spidery fingers, his hidden eyes focusing on nothing. He runs his tongue along the inside of his cheeks again, for about the one millionth time today; it's a horrible habit, but it's one that he'll never really be able to break. It's funny; he had always sort of thought that his afterlife would be spent in Hell, or wherever evil men were supposed to be sent to. No, he wakes up a silver haired child in some hellish Japanese afterlife.
It's funny!
It makes him laugh. Oh, how it makes him laugh. When there's something he just can't help but laugh at, it's something wondrous and horrific; a bloody battlefield with a couple of corpses clutching one another close in death, or some foolish person, a boy, a man, a woman, it never matters, trying to become justice (he adores Tosen, really, because he's just so amazingly insane that it's hilarious), even watching one child kill another like a wild animal. They're horrible things that he laughs at.
He doesn't laugh very often in this life, but when he does, it chills any sane man to the bone. Because when Gin Ichimaru laughs, they're not chuckles, or the snickering you'd expect from the man. No…no. These laughs are shrieks. They're like hyena's chattering, if the hyena were rabid and mad and tainted with the purest of evil. There is exactly one person in this world, somewhere, anywhere, that would know that laughter and kill him for it. He knows that person, he knows him well, and even in this afterlife, he held that person near and dear to his heart.
That man (boy, he should say) is the only one to ever, ever hear Gin Ichimaru's laughter. Not even his Rangiku had heard him laugh before; thank the lord for small mercies. Rangiku is a very special case, actually. He never thought that he would ever desire a woman for her personality, but Rangiku Matsumoto is different. She's almost as chaotic as he is, and that's gorgeous. She understands why he left with Aizen. But, she's staying behind. She stays in the same place as that nemesis-slash-friend of his.
And that man is one that wants him stone cold dead for the second time.
Ichimaru sometimes wishes he could go back to the old life. He loved it. It was his calling, his meaning in existence, the only reason he dragged himself out of bed every morning. Sometimes, Gin really does ponder going back. Just, one day, going berserk all over again.
But he can't do that. Because if he does that, then he probably won't ever get to meet his favorite enemy again, in this afterlife. He doesn't really care about Aizen's plans for ruling creation. He never cared. In fact, having a real, predictable motive really bugs him.
He wants chaos again. He wants anarchy. He wants to smell gasoline in his clothes and he wants to have dark red stains all over his clothes, and he wants to fill his pockets with knives and be a dangerous man again. He wants to dye his hair green again. And what he wants, more than anything else, is to start sending the message again.
Chaos is a beautiful thing. More beautiful than any sight, sweeter than any music, more seductive than any woman, more delicious than any food. Chaos is adoration.
He wants to hear screams and feel flames lick at his body again; he wants to wire bombs to his chest and walk into a deathtrap. He wants to live as if he were seeking death for the second time.
He just wants. And the want never leaves him, not even for a moment.
Shinso hums under his fingertips, and for the time innumerable, he lifts his zanpakutou and places it in his mouth, the tip of the blade pressing hard into the wall of his cheek. It's not the same without the scars. Blood runs onto his tongue and for a moment, he decides to do it.
It passes. He removes Shinso from his mouth, sheathing the blade again with his own blood on his tongue. No. He has to wait. He has to wait for his Batty to show up again.
As he stares out the window at the vast plains of Hueco Mundo, he lets out a barking laugh. It's so damn funny that he can't help himself, and he lets out a cacophony of hysterical shrieks, before they fade into silence and he is Gin Ichimaru again, staring boredly out the window and his head filled with screams and flames and gasoline once again.
Sometimes, the Joker just can't help but laugh at it all again.