He slides a plate across the tile, until it rests against the bars. It's like pulling a finger through dust, the trail it leaves in debri and dirt. Does this place have rats, he wonders idly. nd the noise it had made.. Grating. It'd almost make him flinch. Upon the plate: persimmon cut into parts. He was not allowed to bring a knife down here, so he'd stood and cut the fruit right there at the gate, while the guards had watched. "I'm sure you don't know what day it is.." He murmurs, sitting back on his haunches and waiting to see if his gift will be accepted.

"Nonetheless.. Happy birthday.." [for prisoner verse !]

gin's birthday asks! open from sept. 9 - 16th.

HE DIDN'T KNOW WHAT DAY IT WAS, nor did Gin think it particularly mattered anymore -- he wasn't keeping track, his sentence was quite the lengthy one. But it was surprising nonetheless to see Izuru here, in the damp darkness of his cell's dim lighting. He recalled being warned about how sad this day made his previous lieutenant by the new captain of the Third, at least in a hazy memory of the brief meeting the year prior. So why was Izuru here, then, if his existence was such a pained thing? Better to forget about him, to move on, to let the traitorous Shinigami rot down here.

There were rats, and in his absent-minded boredom Gin had given them a few names by now, too. Silly ones. It kept his humor from dying off completely.

Gin didn't move at first, didn't acknowledge Izuru's presence whilst he kept to his far corner, slumped and coiled inwards to rest his chin upon a propped knee held close to his marred chest. An ankle braced with chains had enough slack to allow the prisoner to walk forward unhindered up until he reached the bars to his cage, but that was when the length of chains grew tense -- and he'd have to reach out to grasp at the tray placed down in offering. Gin remained where he was, glancing toward Izuru in the flickering lantern's light haloing behind him.

❝ What're you doin' down here? ❞ Offering ignored, for now, Gin turned his head properly to regard the other Shinigami, nearly enshrouded in darkness save for the glint of light dancing across dirtied strands of silver. A gleam, subtle, met the glint of azure of an opened eye. Gin shifted, moving to stand with a sluggishness that spoke of ache and weakness -- reiatsu smothered with seals and body neglected and underfed, he was slow to approach the bars with the jingling drag and scrape of metal chain links following his steps. His ankle was rubbed raw and bruised at the joint where the restraint remained fastened.

Gin dipped back down into a crouch, coming further into the light's touch and revealing a worsened appearance than before -- dark undereye circles akin to bruises against pale flesh given a sickly tinge, hair unkempt and with a portion dyed by dried blood by his left temple. The prisoner lowered himself fully into a seated position, cracking a weakened smile at the sliced up arrangement, fondness bittersweet.

❝ You shouldn't've. ❞ He let that brimming nostalgia fuel a more fitting smile to mask the hurt, grinning wider and finding it in him to keep that expression in place. His eyes slid away into hiding once more, head bowing down a touch.

His remaining hand reached out to slide between the bars, albeit barely able to go beyond the tray's position flush against them, to fetch a slice of persimmon prepared by Izuru. He brought it to his mouth -- and bit, the subsequent taste so sweet that Gin's body felt a rush of rejection from head to toe, gut churning. How potent that sensation, feeling sick to his stomach. But he ate regardless, each and every last slice, and he did not bother to even pretend to ask if Izuru wanted a piece, to indulge in that old back and forth of theirs, already knowing the answer would remain the same as it always did.