Seireitei Monogatari

a/n: I really, really like this one. I hope you do, too!

Special thanks to Kuromei, uchiha mikomi, Yakumo and shannon for their reviews!

Also, for those curious, there will eventually be a sequel to "Silver Lining". I don't know when as I'm facing writer's block for that series but there will be one.

Title: Russian Roulette
Characters: Gin/Ukitake
Rating: M
Warning: Spoilers, boykisses, darkness
Words: 1849
Description: If they knew the truth, they’d run him through. That might be preferable.

Inspired by the song of the same name by Rihanna.

“Ne, Juu-san, do ya love me?”

Jyuushiro opens his eyes, stares straight ahead, looks at the piece of paper sitting so innocuously on his desk. It's simple. A piece of folded white, his name painstakingly printed on the front of it. Nothing out of the ordinary except perhaps that it carries the faintest odor of death and decay. Of desolation.

Or perhaps that's Jyuushiro's paranoia speaking for him.

Hands glide down his back. A palm traces the line of his spine. Fingers skip over the ridges of his ribs, always so prominent no matter how much he eats. A low chuckle right in his ear as lips brush the curled shell, skin equally soft against his.

“Ya never eat enough, Juu-san.”

He's staring at the paper like it's a loaded weapon. Like if he touches it, something terrible will happen. And Jyuushiro swallows thickly. His palms are sweaty, and a bead of moisture trickles from his forehead and into his hair. He reaches with a shaky hand, wiping it away, staring at the paper until the kanji blurs.

Just like all the lines in his life. The edges of black and white. The thick and the fine. The places where things used to be so simple but aren't anymore. Where everything has turned to shades of grey. Shades of red, crimson so prominent. And gold, gleaming down everywhere, shooting from a blue, blue sky.

He can feel the ice-blue eyes tracking his movements, watching him from behind slitted lids. And Jyuushiro looks up from his conversation with Shunsui to catch sight of Gin across the courtyard, surreptitiously gazing their direction. That smile curves his lips, and the sight of it sends a shiver down Jyuushiro's spine. A flush of heat through his body. His cheeks heat. His breath quickens. Something inside of him aches.

For a minute there, Jyuushiro can almost see Gin sitting across from him. Smiling and watching, leaning forward, one bony arm on the outer edge of his desk. His other hand drags a careless finger over polished wood. His voice is a seductive purr, eyes promising everything and nothing. Sometimes those of a scared boy seeking parental affection. Sometimes cold like a soldier, the killer Seireitei grooms him to become. Sometimes warm like the island breeze, full of heat and want and desire. Sometimes sharp like the edge of Shinsou's blade, stretching and stretching.

Jyuushiro shivers, even though the heat outside seeps into his office. So warm that he's already shed his haori and sits in only the black shihakushou. Yet, a chill manages to creep down his spine.

He tastes like fenugreek and anise, a sweet and intoxicating mix. His tongue is skilled in ways that a child such as he shouldn't know. And yet, Jyuushiro doesn't argue, doesn't hesitate, just moans as the thin and wiry body covers him. Fingers lock around his wrist, not tightly but making their presence known.

Skin slides against his, always cold no matter the temperature of the room. But his lips are hot, hungry. His legs part, open, vulnerable. And Gin slides between them as though it is where he has always belonged. Jyuushiro lets him because why should he be afraid? Why should he hesitate?

What reason should he have to doubt?

Jyuushiro takes in a steady breath. He wants to close his eyes so that he doesn't have to see the envelope any longer. But that only makes the images so much more vivid. It only amplifies the memories. And his hands are already curling into agonized fists.

He should be braver than this. Why does he feel like he's staring down the edge of a blade, waiting for it to finish its fall? Waiting for the sharp metal to bite into his skin? Crimson gliding down the polished silver until it drips – plop, plop, plip – onto the ground?

“I'll bet ya've never played this rough, ne? Not a good boy like you,” Gin says and holds Shinsou in front of him, teasing the sharp edges with his fingers.

Jyuushiro watches. Unable to look away. His heart beats a mad rhythm in his chest, but his arousal lingers, unabated.

Azure eyes glitter as they look at him. “Do ya trust me, Juu-san?”

This is foolish. Jyuushiro is one of the strongest members of the Gotei 13. He shouldn’t be afraid of a piece of paper. No matter what the words may say. No matter who sent it.

He forces himself to lift his hand and pluck the paper from his desktop. He forces himself to grab the letter opener and slice open the envelope. To shake out the piece of parchment and unfold the careful creases. To look at the words imprinted, a stark black against a sharp white.

Jyuushiro scans the first line. It is a greeting, nothing more. An optimistic greeting with an achingly familiar nickname. But a greeting nonetheless.

He continues, his heart thumping so hard in his chest he fears he will break into a coughing fit at any moment. Jyuushiro can feel the tightening in his lungs, and he trembles from holding back the fit. He can't have Kiyone or Sentarou rushing in here right now. Not with the way he looks. It's hard enough just holding in his reiatsu.

Reiatsu.

There's a smidge of it left on the paper, as though remaining with purpose. The lingering tendrils wisp away from the page and reach for Jyuushiro with disturbing strength. He swears he can see them with his naked eye. Cerulean and scarlet teased, churning, seeking his own with a relentless tenacity.

And damn if his reiatsu doesn't surge forward to meet it. The brief lapse shakes the items on Jyuushiro's desk before he reels it in.

His reiatsu pours over Jyuushiro's skin like a bubbly drink, fizzing and popping in all kinds of ways. Jyuushiro's neck rolls on his shoulders, drunk in sensation. A pair of hands glide over his chest, and fingers tweak his nipples. Lips and teeth and tongue attacking in all the right places, nipping and licking and sucking. His mouth falls over Jyuushiro and doesn’t let go.

Gin's reiatsu feels like the prickle of a sleeping limb, the sensation right after numbness when feeling gradually returns. Jyuushiro's own rises up to meet his. Wave after wave of crashing liquid, trickling down. The two intertwine in the space between them, an almost tangible presence. Until Jyuushiro feels as if he's locked a piece of Gin inside of him.

They writhe together. Hands and fingers and reiatsu twining until he can’t tell where one of them ends and the other begins. Sweat and skin and sex and sin. Passion and pain and pleasure all coiling together.

And then, Gin laughs.

He forces his eyes open, wondering when he allowed them to shut. The paper unblurs, the kanji clear and black. He's been staring at it for longer than he remembers to count.

The paper rattles in his hold. Jyuushiro forces himself to read the rest. His lips move silently to himself, practically able to hear Gin's voice in each word.

Dearest Juu-san,

How’s the weather? Pleasant I should hope. It never really changes here. Just dry and dusty as always. There's not much of a view from my window either. Sand, dead tree, sand, another dead tree, sand, more sand. Oh, look! There goes Stark-bo passing by. It's nothing like the view from your window with the garden and the koi pond.

It’s very cold here, too. It makes me remember the winters when we buried ourselves under piles of blankets because neither of us is ever warm. Especially that one a few years ago. Do you remember that Juu-san? Ya had to hide me in a hurry because Kyouraku came over without announcing himself like he usually does. Has he fixed that bad habit yet? He’ll get an eyeful one of these days if he keeps it up!

How’s Kyouraku by the way? And Izuru-kun? Good, I hope. Aizen-taichou’s doing well. Kana-chan keeps muttering about justice though. Gets rather annoyin’ if ya ask me. I should know. My room's right next to his. Don't ya feel sorry for me, Juu-san? Though I suppose you've heard worse with Yama-jii's snoring, right?

Ah, Aizen-taichou just called a meeting, so I have to cut this short. Stay well, Juu-san. Eat your veggies. Oh, and stay warm at night. Ya know ya catch cold more easily than anyone else.

Hugs and kisses,

Gin

Jyuushiro swallows over a lump in his throat and sets the paper down on his desk. Still open, the incriminating words scream so much more at him than they actually say.

How cruel, that Gin. He acts as if nothing has changed, as though he’s just on vacation somewhere. Like there is no difference between the 'them' they are now and the 'them' they were in the past. Before Gin's betrayal. Before Gin walked away. Before Gin pretended and used him and left him useless like an empty box of tissue.

It's like the present never happened, shouldn't make a difference. Like Jyuushiro should still care and want and hope and desire because that's the way things should be. Like there's no difference to Gin. Here or there. On one side of the war or another. Standing with blades crossed between them.

“If ya won't say it, ya can whisper it to me.”

Jyuushiro looks up and watches as Gin watches him, tongue prodding at the silky cloth that covers his lips. His jaw aches. But it’s a dull pain. Nothing he can't handle. Yet, Jyuushiro can't speak, not even if he wants to.

Thin fingers are an impression on the sides of Jyuushiro's hips. Gin is buried deep inside of him, the throb of his pulse a tangible presence. Gin moves in him slowly, a maddening pace that makes the pleasure within Jyuushiro crest and fall in steadying waves. That makes him twist and turn in his bindings.

Gin chuckles. “Or maybe ya want me ta say it first.” He leans forward, face so close that Jyuushiro can feel the puff of his warm breath. “Ya know that I love ya, Juu-san.”

His voice is a bare whisper above the sounds of their bodies sliding together. But it only makes Jyuushiro suck in a breath and writhe all that much harder.

Jyuushiro aches and licks his lips with a dry tongue.

The envelope and the letter, despite his better judgment, are carefully folded and placed in a small drawer to the side. One with a hidden catch that can't be found by normal means. One so secret that not even Shunsui knows it’s there. The papers land atop a small but similar stack. Which by its existence alone deems him a traitor.

And Jyuushiro spends the rest of the day staring at his wall. At a picture framed in simple black, the elegant kanji depicting a simple poem. One of hope through loss and sorrow. It was a gift, and if anyone knew who from and what it really meant, they’d run him through.

Jyuushiro thinks that might be preferable.

*****

AN: Juu-san is thirteen. It’s a play on his division and name.

This one hurts, much like the Urahara/Aizen series that starts with “Anthem of Our Dying Day”. There may be a sequel in the future, if I can figure out where I want it to go.