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Sometimes, Orihime would hear things. Not voices, not even a whisper against her flesh— something like the jarring screech of a door hinge, high and incessant. It would grate on her ears, and she’d be so sure that it was not of her imagination. But the noise wouldn’t even echo across the sandy terrains of Hueco Mundo. She wondered if she was going mad; madness was contagious amongst Aizen’s incalculable prisoners. She, of course, wasn’t thrown into the hot, muddled cells packed with failed Hollows and potential Shinigami hostages. She was given a room of her own, something out of her fairytale picture books she’d poured over as a child, though the elaborate furnishings weren't able to stir even the briefest pang of fond nostalgia. She was a special case. Her powers made her stand out. Perhaps, she wondered, the noise was something to do with what Aizen understood more than she did— after all, he possessed the Hogyoku.
Aizen, on occasion, would visit her in her room. A soft smile on his lips, a ready word of faux kindness that she fought fiercely to resist, no matter how lonely she’d become. She knew he was after her cooperation, and it would be more than wise for her not to give in. Ichigo would find her— she could already imagine the hoarse cry of his anger, which had rang loud when Kuchiki had lay with her arms wrapped in rope, her fiery death before her. A part of her, a small spiteful glee, relished in the thought that Ichigo had come after her as he had done Kuchiki, was worried for her sake, as he had been for Kuchiki. It was a selfish part of her she’d desperately tried to stamp out on numerous occasions. It never worked.
She confessed these feelings to him. She couldn’t help it— she’d cracked at last. Trapped alone without a flickering gauge on time made one lose their dignity. She’d wanted a listening ear and a comfort for her loneliness. Aizen now knew about the noise, her jealousy of Kuchiki. He then told her, out of the blue, that these things that were bothering her were directly linked.
‘How so?’ she asked, lowering her cup of tea. It didn’t taste like anything she’d had back at home. It was bitter, metallic. She drank it anyway. It quietened her hunger, and it was about the only thing immortal Shinigami had the appetite for.
‘Shun Shun Rikka is reflective of your soul, Orihime,’ said Aizen. He sat before her on the table, the head seat, far beyond her reach. His voice echoed swayingly, calm and quiet. ‘Your jealousy has caused a disturbance within you.’
She considered his words; perhaps he was speaking the truth. But truth and Aizen weren’t two entities that were intimately familiar with each other. Orihime had come to understand that he lied as smoothly as the flow of spring water, and there was no distinguishing his deceit. But she took in his explanation anyway, because what other alternative did she have?
‘Then,’ she said, avoiding his gaze, ‘what can I do about it?’
He smiled. ‘Are you asking me how to stop caring? That is impossible for you, Orihime. You will always be far too concerned about others.’
He was calling her selfless, which she knew she wasn’t, and he had spoken in a rather sardonic manner, as though he did not place much value in such a virtue. She heard his amusement and prickled all over in humiliation, as though he’d taken her feelings and made a spectacle of it for an invisible audience.
‘Cut out your heart,’ he went on. ‘Drain it dry. And then it will all stop, Orihime.’
‘Are you asking me to die?’ she blurted, not following Aizen’s instructions.
This time he laughed aloud, though it was only a faint whisper of a chuckle that a less sharp ear would miss. ‘No, I am not. But to exist without a heart is not exactly living, I do agree. Humans lead short, passionate lives in which they throw themselves into whatever delusion that strikes their fancy. How many have existed before you, Orihime, and fancied themselves in love as you have done? But what did it all amount to, in the end?
‘Absolutely nothing.’
She stared down at her hands. Philosophy had never been her best subject. But his speech resonated with her somewhat. She didn’t believe that her feelings for Ichigo were pointless. There had been times she’d privately despaired at his evident disinterest as she grinned at him and stood beside him as a friend. But even though he’d only look at her as a friend, she felt that there was still plenty of reward in that. She’d relished in being able to do things for him, to heal him and protect him and wish him the best in whatever he fought against.
She opened her mouth to tell Aizen this. But then she paused— as if he’d see merit in friendship, let alone love.
Instead she told him, ‘I think I’m OK with that.’
‘Are you?’ he challenged calmly. ‘Or are you merely trying to comfort yourself?’
‘…. Maybe it's been a long time since you used to be human,’ Orihime replied, ‘but I like that things don’t last. You can enjoy a yummy popsicle only if you eat it fast before it melts. You can go for long walks on the beach while it’s still sunny. And you can love someone, really love someone, until you can’t anymore. It’s worth it, every time.’
Aizen smiled again, as though he was touched— though she knew he wasn’t in the least. ‘That’s wonderful, Orihime. You do know how to bring out the beauty in inevitability.’
‘Well, then you can stop looking down on me,’ she retorted, a little hotly.
‘Oh, never that. I do respect you— at least, I do your abilities.’
She grimaced. Shinigami weren’t good at making jokes, it seemed. ‘…. Thank you?’
‘Anytime.’
And with that, their curious tea time discussion came to a close.