Disclaimer – not mine. Simple enough for you? A quick three-shot, focusing on the three sides of Kisuke's personality. Do you know what a prism is? It's a term for a phenomena whereby a single stream of light is separated into its various components…

Prism

Hara

Shiro sighed as dark hands idly stroked pale hair, deft fingers combing through the bleached strands. The pale hollow, exhausted after their recent activities, lazily turned his head towards the caress.

"You're supposed to be Ichigo's exact opposite, correct?" Hara's voice was meditative, matching the contemplative expression on his face as he pondered an abstract unknown.

Shiro didn't bother to open his eyes, blindly following those soothing fingers as he moaned his appreciation. His head rested on Hara's chest, muscles flexing under colorless skin as he curled into Hara's form. A rare smile of genuine contentment crossed his features as he all but purred beneath the deft administrations of his lover.

Hara apparently took his moaning as assent. "Then why aren't you female?"

Shiro's eyes popped open. He choked, spluttering as he jerked his head up, glaring at the smug features of the other hollow. ""W-what?"

"If you were Kurosaki's polar negative, your sex would be inversed." Hara's voice was calm and contemplative, eminently reasonable. He smiled down at angry golden eyes, all too willing to elaborate. "As it is – I doubt the opposition is that exact. I must say, though, I do wonder what you'd look like." He paused, eyeing the flushed skin of his lover with obvious appreciation as a grin split his features. There was something extremely disturbing about his smile.

"Whatever you're thinking, no way!" Shiro squawked, yanking futilely at the dusky hands tracing a pattern across his skin, a faint shudder of appreciation shaking his frame even as he writhed against the offending digits.

"Hm." Hara sat up abruptly, a finger to his lips as he yanked his lover up with him. "You must admit that it's certainly an intriguing question." Pale eyes surveyed the irate form of his lover, glazing over in perverse contemplation. Shiro scowled.

Dark lips parted in a toothy grin as Hara smirked down at the debauched body in front of him. "Don't worry, Shiro-kun!" The dark hollow mussed Shiro's hair affectionately. "I like you just the way you are." His face leered in perverse appreciation as he leaned downwards, catching the albino's face between his hands and meeting Shiro's pouting lips in a long, slow kiss.

The pale hollow moaned, fingers twining into dark hair as his lover methodically explored his mouth. Shiro twitched as clever fingers traced the muscles of his chest, giving his nipples a teasing fleck before moving downwards. Shiro sometimes speculated that the other hollow was perpetually doped up on aphrodisiacs; even so, he wasn't complaining.

Their lips parted with a slight hiss of air; Hara releasing the tempting lips reluctantly, nibbling just hard enough to draw blood. He smirked as gold-black eyes followed his movement dazedly, rising to his feet in one fluid motion.

Shiro let out an outraged squawk as he found himself abruptly dumped onto sun-warmed glass. Hara grinned at the sound.

"Don't worry, Shiro-kun!" Hara struck an absurdly dramatic pose, one hand thrust outwards in a gesture of triumph. "I think I know how we can find out!" His laughter trailed off into the distance as a quick whirl of shadows consumed him, the perpetual twilight of his presence vanishing into the scorching heat of Ichigo's inner world.

Shiro's eyes widened as he levered himself up from the ground.

"Wait! Hara? HARA!"

Kisuke

Kisuke awakens, trembling, grey eyes ringed (if any were there to see) with black.

Hara is dreaming. It's a rare occurrence – their circadian rhythms are normally synchronous – but not unknown. Hara's complained about reliving their flight from Soul Society often enough, pale eyes unblinking as he smiles. I was there, Kisuke; I don't need to be reminded of the experience.

Sometimes he thinks death would have been kinder.

Hara is dreaming, shadows churning in uneasy waves just beneath his skin, and it is so easy to simply reach out -

Battle. He spins, red arching from Benihime's blade in a graceful spray of crimson, laughing as his reiatsu flares in violent promise. They are running – To him? Away from him? It doesn't matter; power surges easily to his command as he brings his blade down with punishing force, face fixed in crazed ecstasy as he feels flesh split beneath the power of his strike. They come; faceless figures he might have known once in another lifetime, a horde without end and he delights in the carnage that ensues. They are no match for his strength, and he laughs, tossing his head backwards as the blood runs freely, each death a sacrifice to his hunger.

And he whirls, and feels his blade catch an on overlarge sword raised in defiance; savage delight ripples through him as he dances, each blow met and matched by a blade bearing an unfortunate resemblance to an overlarge kitchen cleaver. Orange hair bristles in unconscious defiance as the other takes a guard position; he laughs, darting forward. The other is strong, but not strong enough; he ducks beneath his opponent's guard and twists…

And they are kissing, savage heat soaring between them as he feels chapped lips submit beneath his own, each soft movement igniting a firestorm of pleasure throughout his system. The body pressing against him is unyielding, even now defying the demands of his hunger. He ignores the futile struggles and crushes the other even closer, grinning in triumph as he feels the hardness pressing against his own. Their tongues lock in harsh competition as supple arms wrap about his neck; he snarls, biting his own tongue and feeding the resultant blood into the other's mouth. Copper and death hit his own palate as his partner reciprocates, the taste only heightening their passion. They pass the blood between them, and he senses the hunger rise as the other laughs into his mouth, feeling lips split in a feral grin. And then they're both laughing, and he raises his head and sees equally golden eyes matching his gaze…

Kisuke curls in his bed, shivering, and hungers.

Benihime

She had been confused when her master split, his shadow rising from the ground to stand and walk beside him; still, she did not question. She hissed warning when she saw the mask that decorated his features; she was a sword, and her purpose in life was to slay those-who-are-not. Yet this was still her master – her poor, broken master who taught her songs and fed her with the rich heartblood of foes. Twisted though the shadow may be, he was her wielder, and she sang in answer to his call.

Her master (the one she knew, the one she had killed for and would kill for again) was frightened of the darkness that lapped at her heels; she saw the terror that walked beside him. He was afraid that the darkness would take him utterly, that the shadows would stain his face with porcelain that would never part from his skin. She held him close, offering the only comfort that was hers to give as she crooned a song of soft reassurance.

The shadow would not let her touch him; though he was courteous enough, he would not accept her comfort. She saw him on occasion, pacing the boundaries of the land-that-was-hers, his darkness merging with the shadows that had descended the day of their Fall. He knew many songs (of this she was sure) but would not share them with her; in this, he reminded her of the master-who-was, before the sundering.

So she watched her masters-who-were as they struggled and struck and strived, carving out some form of life in this new realm where the air was stained and the blood ran thin and weak. She did not begrudge her existence; though she longed for better game, she contented herself with the meager prey she was offered. Once in a great occasion, her generous master would sate her hunger with his own blood, freely given – she drank rapidly but sparingly on those few occasions, careful least her thirst outweigh her reason.

So they lived for a time, and were almost content, finding a strange form of balance in their splintered existence.

She had been wary when the other sword appeared, long coat twisting in the wind that blew from the east. He was strong; she knew that much from prior trials, and thus worthy of a certain amount of grudging respect even as she demanded the reason for his presence. She accepted the other's silence with ill grace as she watched the borders with narrow eyes, carefully waiting for the slightest movement

She was startled when the sun rose, when the darkness of her land lightened into the pale twilight of the fresh dawn. The shadow had delighted in the change, darting across the border with eager curiosity; she watched, helpless, as he walked where she could not follow.

She felt her master croon that day, purring a soft reassurance to a sunbright child who clung to him in fear.

She heard the shadow sing, weaving power from the air to entrap a snarling phantom who screamed of endless defiance.

Benihime reached across the border, and took the black moon's hand.