ALSO. DOUBLE-POST, BUT WORTH IT.
MIA WROTE THIS LOVELY, LOVELY THING FOR ME. ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ !!! I HAVE NO WORDS FOR THE AWESOME THAT IS THIS. *INCOHERENT NOISES OF FLAIL AND LOVE AND ADKJASLKJDSAL*
The second to the last time they meet it is in Abantiare two hours past midnight, a few wisps of dark cloud scudding across a sickly crescent of a moon. Aizen is standing at the end of an alley, hands crossed over the hilt of his sword, the white coat draped over his dark-suited shoulders almost eerie in the shadows of walls and sleeping houses. Beside him, Gin crouches on the ground, his posture relaxed, unceremoniously picking at his teeth and looking at the sky with half-lidded eyes.
There is a man standing before them, tall and lean. His shadow cuts across Gin's face and Aizen's hand as he steps forward.
"I think you'll find that's close enough, thank you," Aizen says, his tone as exquisitely polite as if he were discussing the merits of different kinds of tea in a well-to-do Bellcius salon.
The man takes another step forward and then stops. As he lifts his face to meet Aizen's gaze the moonlight throws his features into sharp relief: all sharp angles and harsh planes and razor-edged lines.
"Interestingly enough, I seem to recall you were singing a different tune last night," Holmes says.
Aizen laughs. It is a soft, pleasant sound. "I sing whatever song I like," he replies, "and as you have seen, what I like is usually what I believe best for the occasion."
The forced calm on Holmes's face does not waver, but the uncertain light throws itself over a tensing jawline, clenching fists. "A dirge, then."
"Which one would you like?" Gin this time, the drawl escaping from between the baring of white, perfect teeth. "I know several."
"You--"
"I am sure," Aizen cuts in, stance shifting ever so slightly, "that the esteemed Sherlock Holmes did not force this meeting simply to hear Gin mourn for the dead. Better to bypass these preliminaries, don't you think. Time is so very, very precious, after all, and we all," the smile turns into a definite smirk, "have so little time to waste."
Holmes does not reply, but the night air grows heavy with the sound of strained breathing barely held in check. Aizen watches him openly, no longer bothering to hide the growing amusement in his eyes. Beside him, Gin yawns, stretches, and stands, scratching at the nape of his neck with the point of a blade.
"I feel it my obligation to warn you, sir," Holmes finally says, "that it would be in your best interests to kill me now, as otherwise I will live to bring you down."
"And destroy my pawns wherever you may find them, I suppose?" Aizen loops his sword through his belt and spreads his arms in an expansive gesture. "All the more incentive to let you live, wouldn't you say?"
As Aizen and Gin turn away, Aizen blurring into motion and seeming to reappear on a distant rooftop, Gin looks back over his shoulder at Holmes.
And smiles.
"You'll say goodbye to Watson for us, won't you?" Then he is gone, leaving nothing but the poison of his words and the faint stir of dust on the street marking his passage.
The last time they meet, it is in utter darkness.
----------
It ends the same way it began: with a chess game and the closing of a door.
Three years of his life devoted to the single-minded pursuit of a man who is supposed to be dead -- and it comes down to this, a winding spiral staircase leading up an abandoned tower to a room that once housed the most powerful set of telescopes in Melior. He stops at the threshold of the room, but not, as others would, to take a deep breath and brace himself. Instead Holmes casually adjusts his collar and inspects his cuff-links with the valedictory air of a man about to enter a banquet meant to celebrate his achievements.
After all, there is no need to calm oneself or pause for preparation when one has lived those same three years in perpetual readiness for the final blow.
When he enters the room light floods his eyes, the afternoon sun's rays from the floor-length windows reflected and amplified by the mirrored walls. Despite the overwhelming brightness there is nary a break in his step, no hesitation in his movements, as he walks to the table set in the center of the room and takes a seat at one end.
Sousuke Aizen is seated at the other end, clad in a suit as impeccable as the one Holmes is wearing. There is no hint of mockery in the smile curving his lips. Only warmth. And more than that: respect.
That it is there does not surprise him. That it is freely given, however, should. But there is no surprise in Holmes's mind as he settles himself in the high-backed chair.
Simply a sense of fulfillment.
"Welcome," Aizen says, steepling his fingers under his chin.
Holmes inclines his head. "Thank you."
There are several bottles of wine and a set of decanters and glasses on the table before Holmes. His host (for that is what he is) gestures to the drinks. "Please feel free."
"Very generous of you indeed," Holmes says, pouring himself a glass of red wine. A highly prized vintage; he gazes at it appreciatively before taking a sip. Still no hesitation. There is no reason for the other man to resort to something so obvious as poison.
"I must say," Aizen remarks, after raising his own glass to Holmes in an unspoken toast, "that I had hoped you would not come."
"Surely you knew I would find you."
"Of course." A shrug that stops short of outright dismissal and skirts the boundaries of-- forced indifference. "Hope is not expectation."
Another man who possessed the full reach of Holmes's knowledge would have scoffed at the thought of Sousuke Aizen hoping for anything. Holmes, however, does not. Instead he says, "You know why I am here nevertheless."
"As you know," and those smiling lips twist, "that only one of us will leave."
"That was decided from the very start," is the cool, level rejoinder.
Aizen makes an odd noise in the back of his throat and gestures instead to the chess board standing at the very center of the table. "You will grant me this match?"
Holmes does not reply, only returns the half-smile and lifts a white pawn in his long, thin fingers and sets it down on a white square. After a thoughtful silence, Aizen mirrors the movement.
They play as the sunlight reddens then fades, as shadows steal over the smoky cityscape outside, as night paints the room in shades of blue, black, gray. Sometime during the game candles and chandeliers flare to life to light the table and chess board. Holmes hardly spares these self-lighting candles a second glance.
His hand is steady as he moves his queen to a black square. Something flickers in Aizen's eyes, and for the first time in several hours Holmes speaks.
He says: "Come out."
"I suppose it would be rude of me to refuse such an invitation," a voice, directly behind him, says. The man seated across Holmes vanishes, and Aizen moves to take his place. "Very impressive, Mr. Holmes."
Holmes allows himself a slight nod in acknowledgment. "There was nothing lacking," he says as the black knight captures the white queen. "Except for one thing."
"Pray tell."
"It moved as if in a mirror." His eyes are half-lidded with satisfaction as Holmes waves a hand at the glass-paneled walls, where countless other men dressed in immaculate gray mirror his gesture. "The reflection is truer than the reality." With his other hand, he places the last white bishop on a black square. He releases the piece slowly, fingers sliding over white jade. A crystalline moment: his eyes meets Aizen's and hold that gaze.
Silence stretches out between them, full and deep. Holmes's last thought is of a perfect, untouched field of snow.
Aizen lets his fingers on the absence of the detective's pulse linger one moment longer than necessary before he straightens, a nameless darkness in his eyes. In any other situation or place it would take no more than a thought, a stray flick of the wrist, to summon a servant to dispose of the body, but he has no servants here.
Perhaps it is selfishness that impelled him to keep this man's death inviolate, untouched by the gaze or knowledge of anyone else. Completely and only his own. Perhaps. For once, it does not matter.
How Gin would laugh if he knew.
He leans over the table, touches the black king with a fingertip, and knocks it down.
When he turns back, he meets that impossibly keen gaze -- more brilliant tonight than in any of those other meetings -- for the last time.
"Congratulations," Aizen murmurs. "Well played."
Then he reaches out and closes Holmes's eyes.
(The game is the Immortal Game
, with Holmes playing white and Aizen playing black.)
The second to the last time they meet it is in Abantiare two hours past midnight, a few wisps of dark cloud scudding across a sickly crescent of a moon. Aizen is standing at the end of an alley, hands crossed over the hilt of his sword, the white coat draped over his dark-suited shoulders almost eerie in the shadows of walls and sleeping houses. Beside him, Gin crouches on the ground, his posture relaxed, unceremoniously picking at his teeth and looking at the sky with half-lidded eyes.
There is a man standing before them, tall and lean. His shadow cuts across Gin's face and Aizen's hand as he steps forward.
"I think you'll find that's close enough, thank you," Aizen says, his tone as exquisitely polite as if he were discussing the merits of different kinds of tea in a well-to-do Bellcius salon.
The man takes another step forward and then stops. As he lifts his face to meet Aizen's gaze the moonlight throws his features into sharp relief: all sharp angles and harsh planes and razor-edged lines.
"Interestingly enough, I seem to recall you were singing a different tune last night," Holmes says.
Aizen laughs. It is a soft, pleasant sound. "I sing whatever song I like," he replies, "and as you have seen, what I like is usually what I believe best for the occasion."
The forced calm on Holmes's face does not waver, but the uncertain light throws itself over a tensing jawline, clenching fists. "A dirge, then."
"Which one would you like?" Gin this time, the drawl escaping from between the baring of white, perfect teeth. "I know several."
"You--"
"I am sure," Aizen cuts in, stance shifting ever so slightly, "that the esteemed Sherlock Holmes did not force this meeting simply to hear Gin mourn for the dead. Better to bypass these preliminaries, don't you think. Time is so very, very precious, after all, and we all," the smile turns into a definite smirk, "have so little time to waste."
Holmes does not reply, but the night air grows heavy with the sound of strained breathing barely held in check. Aizen watches him openly, no longer bothering to hide the growing amusement in his eyes. Beside him, Gin yawns, stretches, and stands, scratching at the nape of his neck with the point of a blade.
"I feel it my obligation to warn you, sir," Holmes finally says, "that it would be in your best interests to kill me now, as otherwise I will live to bring you down."
"And destroy my pawns wherever you may find them, I suppose?" Aizen loops his sword through his belt and spreads his arms in an expansive gesture. "All the more incentive to let you live, wouldn't you say?"
As Aizen and Gin turn away, Aizen blurring into motion and seeming to reappear on a distant rooftop, Gin looks back over his shoulder at Holmes.
And smiles.
"You'll say goodbye to Watson for us, won't you?" Then he is gone, leaving nothing but the poison of his words and the faint stir of dust on the street marking his passage.
The last time they meet, it is in utter darkness.
----------
It ends the same way it began: with a chess game and the closing of a door.
Three years of his life devoted to the single-minded pursuit of a man who is supposed to be dead -- and it comes down to this, a winding spiral staircase leading up an abandoned tower to a room that once housed the most powerful set of telescopes in Melior. He stops at the threshold of the room, but not, as others would, to take a deep breath and brace himself. Instead Holmes casually adjusts his collar and inspects his cuff-links with the valedictory air of a man about to enter a banquet meant to celebrate his achievements.
After all, there is no need to calm oneself or pause for preparation when one has lived those same three years in perpetual readiness for the final blow.
When he enters the room light floods his eyes, the afternoon sun's rays from the floor-length windows reflected and amplified by the mirrored walls. Despite the overwhelming brightness there is nary a break in his step, no hesitation in his movements, as he walks to the table set in the center of the room and takes a seat at one end.
Sousuke Aizen is seated at the other end, clad in a suit as impeccable as the one Holmes is wearing. There is no hint of mockery in the smile curving his lips. Only warmth. And more than that: respect.
That it is there does not surprise him. That it is freely given, however, should. But there is no surprise in Holmes's mind as he settles himself in the high-backed chair.
Simply a sense of fulfillment.
"Welcome," Aizen says, steepling his fingers under his chin.
Holmes inclines his head. "Thank you."
There are several bottles of wine and a set of decanters and glasses on the table before Holmes. His host (for that is what he is) gestures to the drinks. "Please feel free."
"Very generous of you indeed," Holmes says, pouring himself a glass of red wine. A highly prized vintage; he gazes at it appreciatively before taking a sip. Still no hesitation. There is no reason for the other man to resort to something so obvious as poison.
"I must say," Aizen remarks, after raising his own glass to Holmes in an unspoken toast, "that I had hoped you would not come."
"Surely you knew I would find you."
"Of course." A shrug that stops short of outright dismissal and skirts the boundaries of-- forced indifference. "Hope is not expectation."
Another man who possessed the full reach of Holmes's knowledge would have scoffed at the thought of Sousuke Aizen hoping for anything. Holmes, however, does not. Instead he says, "You know why I am here nevertheless."
"As you know," and those smiling lips twist, "that only one of us will leave."
"That was decided from the very start," is the cool, level rejoinder.
Aizen makes an odd noise in the back of his throat and gestures instead to the chess board standing at the very center of the table. "You will grant me this match?"
Holmes does not reply, only returns the half-smile and lifts a white pawn in his long, thin fingers and sets it down on a white square. After a thoughtful silence, Aizen mirrors the movement.
They play as the sunlight reddens then fades, as shadows steal over the smoky cityscape outside, as night paints the room in shades of blue, black, gray. Sometime during the game candles and chandeliers flare to life to light the table and chess board. Holmes hardly spares these self-lighting candles a second glance.
His hand is steady as he moves his queen to a black square. Something flickers in Aizen's eyes, and for the first time in several hours Holmes speaks.
He says: "Come out."
"I suppose it would be rude of me to refuse such an invitation," a voice, directly behind him, says. The man seated across Holmes vanishes, and Aizen moves to take his place. "Very impressive, Mr. Holmes."
Holmes allows himself a slight nod in acknowledgment. "There was nothing lacking," he says as the black knight captures the white queen. "Except for one thing."
"Pray tell."
"It moved as if in a mirror." His eyes are half-lidded with satisfaction as Holmes waves a hand at the glass-paneled walls, where countless other men dressed in immaculate gray mirror his gesture. "The reflection is truer than the reality." With his other hand, he places the last white bishop on a black square. He releases the piece slowly, fingers sliding over white jade. A crystalline moment: his eyes meets Aizen's and hold that gaze.
Silence stretches out between them, full and deep. Holmes's last thought is of a perfect, untouched field of snow.
Aizen lets his fingers on the absence of the detective's pulse linger one moment longer than necessary before he straightens, a nameless darkness in his eyes. In any other situation or place it would take no more than a thought, a stray flick of the wrist, to summon a servant to dispose of the body, but he has no servants here.
Perhaps it is selfishness that impelled him to keep this man's death inviolate, untouched by the gaze or knowledge of anyone else. Completely and only his own. Perhaps. For once, it does not matter.
How Gin would laugh if he knew.
He leans over the table, touches the black king with a fingertip, and knocks it down.
When he turns back, he meets that impossibly keen gaze -- more brilliant tonight than in any of those other meetings -- for the last time.
"Congratulations," Aizen murmurs. "Well played."
Then he reaches out and closes Holmes's eyes.
(The game is the Immortal Game
, with Holmes playing white and Aizen playing black.)