A/N: Konnichiwa, minna! Here we are again, the beginning of the next part. I suppose you could call them arcs. lol. We get a little freaky in this, not this chapter but a little later in the arc. Nothing too major in this one though, just some average bullying violence and the mention of past abuse. Fairly typical high school BS. Also, the title comes from a poem of the same name. Unfortunately I have lost the link to where I found it and no longer remember the name of the author, but it was a powerful poem. It inspired a lot of how this arc plays out. Go read it. Anyway, enjoy! Ja ne!

Part 4: Butterfly, We Were Meant To Be

Twenty-three-years-old. First day of Sophomore year, and abso-fucking-lutely nothing had changed. Still the freaky, odd-ball, with the sexual predator grin and fucked up interests in a body entirely too skinny to be attractive. He sighed, the same thoughts he always had running through his head. A summer at home with his mom and sister had been great, though being in that tiny Appalachian town again was like the first day of kindergarten all over again. Only this time the people around him already knew he was fucked up and weird. Talking to fucking butterflies for God's sake, how much more weird could he get? Oh right…a certain propensity for saying the wrong thing and being attracted to the wrong gender for a small town like that. It'll be better, she said. There will be more people who like the same stuff, she said. The young man snorted, his blond, straw-straight hair blowing out of his face, and he grimaced at the campus, a hand wrapped around his book-bag strap, the other in the pocket of his skinny plaid jeans.

The jocks tossed a football around near the reflecting pond and just outside the door to the quad, like a pack of guard dogs intimidating anyone who wanted to enter. Their cheerleader girlfriends perched like a flock of jaybirds possessively on the fence that kept drunken idiots from falling into said reflecting pond. To the other side the computer nerds were chattering as they and the bookworms collectively entered the library-slash-computer science building. The beatnik/hippie/goths spread out across the lawn between the two pretending to be too cool and complaining about the sun, but doing nothing to get out of it. Somewhere in the distance he could hear the band geeks practicing. And the smattering of others in clusters of threes and fours dotted the pathways from where he stood at the edge of the parking lot that separated the campus from the town that had grown like a barberry hedge around the school. All in all, it meant yet another attempt at navigating the minefield of cliques and gangs that he'd been sure a year ago he'd left behind in high school. So much for that idea.

Before he could do anything he was shoved. The big burly guy laughing when he had to flail to keep his balance and his bag went flying, spraying papers and pencils everywhere. Thankfully his books were still within, but his drawings, doodles of men with huge butterfly wings and butterflies with the features of human men, scattered about the path like so many leaves in the wind. He started to snarl at the behemoth but bit his tongue, knowing it wouldn't do any good, and began picking up his shit.

"What, bug-boy? Ain't gonna say nothin'?" The meat head sneered, and the blond ignored him. So he turned to his friends and laughed, "Look, boys, the buggy thought ta show his face again! He must not've learned nothin' last year. Yer kind ain't welcome here, faggot."

The foot that attempted to plant itself in his ribs as he bent to gather his pencils was easily avoided but it turned out his antagonist's friends decided to ring him, throwing punches and kicks in his direction. Not all of them were hard enough to hurt. Being beaten and outcast most of his life had given him, quite literally, a thick skin. So, the blows he couldn't avoid, he absorbed, until the asshole caught him across the temple. This sent him sprawling on the pavement, and he just lay there, praying the hazing would stop. As though it was an answer to his prayers, the wind changed, bringing the scent of wildflowers, and the thug sniffed.

"He ain't worth it. Let's go get some burgers."

The gang moved off and Shinji hunched over his bag. His drawings were ruined now, but that was fine. The same faceless man that had haunted his dreams for as long as he could remember would be easy to re-capture. He could feel the beginnings of a black eye, blood dripped down his face from where the bastard's punch had split his eyebrow, and he'd bitten his tongue at some point. Not to mention the scattering of other, more minor bruises he could feel all over his body. He sighed, yup, brand new school year, just like high school.

He moved off to his poli-sci class, on the second floor of the computer science building due to the heavy amount of current events needed to complete the course. He'd just stepped into the lecture hall when he froze. There he was. The tall brunette that had transferred in from Japan in the middle of last year. Chiseled features, toned, wavy brown hair with that stubborn stray bang that either didn't want to stay tucked back or was deliberately curled forward, and eyes...deep, wise, devour-the-soul, chocolate eyes. The blond had no idea what the man's major was, or why he was even there since he looked to be about thirty, but he had been in every single one of Shinji's classes. And it appeared that would be the case again this year, too. Though Shinji had no courage to actually go up to the other male and talk to him, he was compelled to watch him, and the butterfly-man in his dreams had begun to take on his classmate's appearance. He had it bad. He didn't even know the other's name and he was dreaming about him. So, watching the brunette reading from across the room, Shinji was spell-bound.

Until he was shoved for the second time that day by the same Neanderthal who'd led his gang in accosting the blond. "Move it, fairy-pants. Yer floodin' the hallway wit'cher drool."

He glared, but wiped his mouth unconsciously anyway as the rest of the asshole's gang also shoved their way inside, jostling the blond back and forth with every person who passed him. He was delayed long enough that the only seat in the room was dead-center, front row, AKA 'the splash zone', where Professor Marechiyo's habit of spitting when he got excited about something usually landed. He groaned but took his seat. Class was going to be hell, especially since Professor Marechiyo generally insisted on his students maintaining the same seating arrangement all semester. He'd learned that the hard way last year, when he'd had the flamboyantly egotistical instructor for Economics 101.

Abruptly, nearby, out of the splash zone, and conveniently next to that handsome older boy, a seat opened up. The student had checked his syllabus and realized he was in the wrong class, then bolted out of the room to try and make it to the correct one.

He knew he shouldn't. He knew it. But he damn well couldn't help himself. A year. A year of watching him invisibly, of seeing him every day, of drowning in his aura and scent. That was hard. Harder was controlling himself when his reincarnated Key was harmed. The first time he'd seen him hit by one of those thrice-cursed jocks, his eyes had dilated, his wings had dyed dark red, his claws had burst through his fingers and if Ulquiorra and Grimmjow hadn't been with him to search out the one he'd come to know and love as Shinji Hirako, he would have torn the foolish mortals to shreds. As it was, between the two of them they had barely held him back. Grimmjow's ribs were still tender even after Ichigo had reversed the damage.

Still, he could not resist opening a chair next to him and enticing his mate over. After a year, he had reached the end of his patience. It was time to really get to know each other and no better time to start than as soon as possible.

Shinji looked up from his notebook, where once again he was sketching, as the boy rushed out of the room. The brunette beckoned him over, dark brown eyes seeming to glitter for just a moment before returning to calm. Glancing at the door, then at the seat vacated, the blond bolted, double-quick out of the splash zone. He had all of two seconds to get there before Professor Marechiyo burst through the door to his office with a large grin and a loud greeting.

"Welcome, peons, to Political Science! If you survived my Economics, I'm sure you only did so because of my amazing skills at teaching something to your brainless selves. Don't expect me to be that easy on you this term. Not a single one of you is has even half the potential I had when I sat in those seats." The instructor continued on a long-winded rant, punctuated by proclamations of just how awesome he was, and thoroughly coating the seat Shinji had just vacated, for the next several minutes.

In his new seat, the blond chanced a look at the amazing male next to him. He flushed deeply pink and immediately went back to sketching. When the syllabus was passed around for everyone to sign and take a copy, he had to twist to take it from the girl behind him, leaving visible for all the world to see the intensely detailed image of the man with the butterfly wings reaching out of the page as if to caress the audience.

Aizen couldn't stop himself from reaching out to touch it. It looked, so much like...like him. Like his true self. His fingers, though light, left telltale smudges when he quickly withdrew his hand as Shinji came back around. He had already tuned out the worthless professor—he knew more than that puffed-up plebian could even begin to conceive. However, being seen touching his sketches, which so many others had ravaged and destroyed, would not endear him to his mate.

Shinji frowned at the place where the design was blurred. He didn't remember doing that, but he tilted his head, first one way, then the other. All at once, he reached out and duplicated the smudge on the opposite side of the drawing, making the edges of the creature's wings appear to be fluttering, or possibly like there was dust floating free of the softly swirling appendages. He smiled, and almost signed it, but was cut off by the obnoxious voice of his professor.

"Shinji Hirako! Well, well, well. Drawing in my class again, I see."

Thick, oiled-soft fingers clenched the edge of the sketch and tore the page from the book so he could hold it up to his face, which was just as oily. The blond cringed, unconsciously trying to sink into his chair as the instructor sneered at it. The black-haired balding man shook his head, and shoved the artwork back down onto the desk, further smudging the soft pencil. As the hefty male turned to make his way back up to the front of the classroom, most of the class snickered. The ones who remembered him from the year before sneered, whispering behind their hands about the way he stood out before.

"Just make sure you pay attention to me this term. I don't care how talented you are, if you're in my class, you obviously can't stack up to me."

Shinji wished he could fall into the ground and disappear.

That was it, he had sat quietly through this pompous ass's class without saying a damn word last year, but for the love of the Heirs he was not going to keep his mouth shut now. Not when the fucker insulted his mate! He stood up, and his eyes were hard. Cold. Angry. His voice, on the other hand, was silky. Smooth. Pleasant even. "I do hate to interrupt, Professor," in spite of the silk, the word was dripping in sarcasm, "but it has been scientifically proven that for active minds, drawing, sketching, doodling, and scribbling cause significant memory improvement by causing them to associate the auditory information they take in to images or feelings. The more associations, the easier it is to remember."

His eyes were dilating. This man's mind was fucking sludge, but he would not make fun of his mate again, even if he had to Imprint his will upon him. "Just as you remember perfectly every detail of your brother humiliating you in front of your entire college class during your first semester, don't you, Professor." This last was added in a low voice, with vicious surgical precision to hurt the man, not meant for the class to hear. Except for Shinji, who was so close there was no avoiding him hearing the meticulously-aimed barb.

Shinji and the other students that were one desk away from the handsome brunette all gasped, while the instructor fish-mouthed for a moment. Then he cleared his throat, composing himself. "Yes, well, genius tends to draw in genius. I am not at all surprised that Mr. Hirako would doodle in my class, nor that he would find a defender in yourself, Mr. Aizen."

The teacher retreated quickly, and Shinji stared, while all around them whispers carried both the truth and the implications of such an action from their cluster of seats to the far side of the room where the jocks who had delivered the first of this year's hazing on him were sitting. Glares from the small-minded males cut across the room, and whispers headed back about how in trouble both boys were now going to be. It took nearly fifteen minutes for Professor Marechiyo to regain control of the class, and by then he had nearly lost all of his temper, assigning them mountains of reading work and research to be done before the next class in three days. Then he dismissed them and it was a stampede to get out of the lecture hall so each and every one of those buzzing dayflies could be the first in their respective cliques to share this juicy gossip.

Shinji still stared. He hadn't even bothered to write down what he needed to have completed. He'd be reading the textbook anyway. But the boy...Aizen?...had stood up for him. Spoken out against the teacher for him. He must be one of those ass-kissers, right? It couldn't possibly be because of Shinji himself. He was sure of it. Nobody stood up for him. Ever. It just didn't happen.

Aizen didn't even get off his chair, merely turned and picked up the ruined portrait. "I can't believe how badly he damaged this," he murmured with genuine regret. "Dear Abyss. Does the man bathe in oil instead of water? It was so lifelike," he mourned.

With that delicate little bit of smudging, it really had looked so real, so accurate...He returned it to Shinji's book with a deep sigh and turned, giving a bit of an embarrassed blush.

"I'm sorry, I went off on a tangent and didn't even introduce myself. My name is, as you heard, Aizen. Aizen Sousuke, or, I suppose, Sousuke Aizen in English." He offered his hand with more grace and poise than he felt in his heart. "And you're Hi- err, Shinji Hirako?"

Shinji took the offered hand, feeling like he was dreaming. His mouth had gone dry. "Y-yeah. Shinji Hirako. After my dad. He was...uh...Japanese. A-and don't...I mean, about the picture...I...I'm used to drawing him."

He realized he was still shaking the man's hand, and quickly withdrew himself. He rushed to gather his things together, his nerves making his hands shake. He knocked over the chair to the desk, and dropped his sketchbook. Once again the drawings, in every media he could carry with him, spilled out across the floor. Dozens of images, all of them meticulously done with intense details so real it looked like the creature would jump off the page, and most of them were in some state of being ruined. Water spots, wrinkles, tears, smudges. Almost all of them had been partially destroyed. The blond's hand shot out to try and catch them but each and every one slipped through his fingers.

"Oh goodness, here, I'll help," Aizen said, laying his hands on Shinji's hips and lifting him onto the desk, telling him, "You just sit here and get all your things together while I collect these lovely, if damaged, art pieces."

His voice was dark and sweet, almost seductive, though he didn't mean to be. He then bent and started to pick up each sheet of paper one by one, his lovely muscled ass on display in his customary dress slacks. When he'd gathered them all, he straightened up again and brought them back to Shinji.

All the blond could do was blink, accepting his precious drawings when they were offered. "Th-thank you. I...uh...why are you talking to me?" He flushed deeply. He sucked royally at conversations with new people. "Wait...I mean...uh..."

The brunette chuckled and said, gently. "I think I know what you mean. I've been noticing the way people treat you and I find it atrocious. I want to change it. You're a wonderful artist, and an amazingly cheerful person considering how often life throws irritating little shits in your path. I don't want them to kill that part of you. Well, that and a purely selfish reason," he added with a little grin and a little eyebrow wriggle, "I find you rather attractive and I couldn't wait any longer to make a move."

It took all of a moment for the mask to slide over his face, and Shinji grinned, hopping off the desk. He looked up at the brunette with the kind of seduction that he used on those he wanted to keep at arms' length. His voice was teasing, and carried a note of humor that didn't quite cover the fact that he meant the exact opposite of what he said.

"And here I thought ya were blind."

Though his grin stretched from ear to ear, his eyes remained hard. In fact, harder than they had been during that interlude where he'd been wide open. Internally he was berating himself for even allowing that much of his normal facade to fall away. Then he was twirling with his backpack and sketchbook and strutting out of the room. Being that close to his crush was difficult to begin with, but to hear words that he was sure were simply platitudes to try and set him up, he couldn't bear it. He had to get away and find some flowers. He had things on his chest he had to vent, and to do that he needed to find a place that reminded him of the field behind his home in that small town where he'd grown up talking to butterflies in all kinds of weather, because that field always had butterflies, even in the middle of winter.

"Wait!"

God damn it, where did his usual charm go? Oh right, directly out the window the second he got within touching distance of his mate. He carried nothing—he never did—so it was relatively easy to scramble after him, so fast he must have Flit for a moment, because the next thing he knew he was running directly into him and tripping them both up. He instinctively tucked the smaller body into his own and turned so his own back hit the floor first, cursing viciously in German when he felt his illusion-covered wing joints crunch.

"Shit, sorry, Shinji, I didn't mean to knock you over. Are you alright?" Wing joints could regrow—he hadn't hurt his mate, had he?!

This was not a promising start. Damn it! He needed his usual charms, but he refused to use those parlor tricks on his mate. He didn't like his mate hiding from him. Though for a human it was a remarkably thorough illusion, he was against the Illusory Master. Aizen saw through it like paper, saw to the hurt and anger beneath. He couldn't stand to let it fester and grow.

The blond blinked down at the taller male. Then he was back up on his feet in a quick jump with the flash of that same smile, though the corner ticked a little. "O' course."

He stepped over Aizen, grabbed his sketchbook for a third time from the ground, and tucked the thing into his book-bag. He really should have learned long ago to do that every time he stood up, but he always forgot. And he fought down the irritated scowl that threatened to break his mask. So, to cover the imperfections in his stance, he flipped his pageboy-length hair with the hand that wasn't slinging his bag over his shoulder.

"Dunno why ya wanna follow me, but if that pompous windbag is th' same as last year, we've got a shitton o' homework ta do b'fore Thursday. So, I'm headin' out ta git started. An'...heh...if ya wanna avoid rumors, ya probably should cover that up a bit better. People don't like fairies 'round here."

Aizen's heart stopped. Fairy?! He could see?!