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dracoqueen22a/n: Because someone's been having a bad time as of late, I thought I might try and cheer her up.
This is for you,![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
hockeyiris , in hopes that things get better soon. ^__^ Enjoy!
“This is going to sound weird, but… I need a favor.”
“From me? Why not Sado?”
“Chad’s… different. I trust him to watch my back, but I’m not sure he’ll do what’s necessary. Not concerning… me.”
“What the hell are you talking about, Kurosaki? Start making sense.”
“Alright. Damn, don’t get your panties in a twist, Ishida.”
“I’m not amused. Either ask your favor or leave me alone. In case you’ve forgotten, we’ve got a mission to complete.”
“Fine. Stubborn Quincy.”
“Moronic Shinigami.”
“Look. All I’m asking is that if anything happens, I want you to stop me.”
“Stop you?”
“From doing something I’ll regret. From… from hurting someone.”
“You mean other than the dozens of Hollow and Espada we’re about to face.”
“You know what I mean!”
“Yes, I do. And I want to know what you think I’ll be able to do about it.”
“I don’t know. You’re the genius. You figure it out.”
“Hmph. Why am I not surprised?”
“You know what? Forget I asked.”
“Kurosaki.”
“What?”
“I’ll do it. But only because I know I won’t have to.”
~
There was a period of time when he lost himself to the blood. The smell and the taste of it and the pain that roared through his body. It was a time Ichigo couldn’t really count, trapped behind two-way glass as strong as concrete. Pounding fists against the unrelenting material, watching himself as though he were an outsider.
An outsider who could feel and taste and touch everything going on beyond him. Zangetsu’s hilt – hot and slippery in his fingers. The dry air of the desert, the flap of his shihakushou in tatters around him. Inoue’s tears, the taste of her fear. Ulquiorra’s disdain, the chilly bite of his Hollow reiatsu.
Ishida’s eyes and the way he stood between them.
The defiant set to Ishida’s shoulders and the worry that creased his brow. It was hidden in dignity and pride, but the worry was there.
Ichigo remembered screaming, shouting at himself from within his wall of glass. Remembered the sound of his voice echoing around him, growing louder and louder, but no one was listening. His fists pounded against the unbreakable, fingernails clawing and scraping. Laughter echoed around him, not his own. Hollow and grating, amused, mocking him.
“Not the king right now, are ya?”
His legs were weak, and Ichigo fought that feebleness, staring out a bleak black and white world splashed with red. At the blotch of white in front of him, wrapped in Quincy power, doing just as Ichigo had asked him to earlier. Only now, Ichigo wished he could rescind that request. It was a stupid thing to beg, and Ishida was going to get himself killed, and it would be all Ichigo’s fault.
Ishida’s hand on his wrist, so warm and hot, fingers applying a direct pressure. Ishida was telling him to stop. That it was enough. That any more and he wouldn’t even be human anymore.
In his glass prison, Ichigo agreed; he screamed at himself to stop.
The rest of him didn’t agree.
The feel of his hand whipping through the air, of his zanpakutou slicing forward, echoed throughout his entire body. Even more than the feel of Zangetsu slamming into Ishida, forcing the Quincy backwards, sending him flying. Worse than the feel of his own self proceeding across the ground, steps heavy with intent. His own dark reiatsu curling around him, focused at those ugly horns, aimed for Ishida. Defenseless.
Inoue’s scream seemed to echo his own, and Ichigo’s hands again slammed at the glass. He swore he heard the tiniest crack, the smallest sound of a splinter.
Ulquiorra rose out of the shadows, and the glass shattered into a thousand pieces, throwing Ichigo into darkness.
He remembered waking up to the sound of Inoue’s cries, Ishida’s gasp for breath, and the feel of a lingering Hollow reiatsu, teetering on the edge of annihilation. There was a crushing sense of understanding, of realization.
He’d done it. His hands. It didn’t matter that his Hollow had been in control at the time. The Hollow was part of him, some portion of him. It was the same as if Ichigo had done it himself.
~
“I’m sorry.”
“Quit apologizing. It wasn’t you.”
“It was me. And I am sorry.”
“It healed. I got over it. You should, too.”
“That’s not the point, Ishida! Shit, why do you have to be so stubborn?”
“Why do you? I said it wasn’t a problem, Kurosaki. So stop apologizing.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“It will be as soon as you let it go.”
“I can’t just-- Dammit, Ish—Uryuu, get back here.”
“I’m not going to sit here and listen to you wallow in misplaced guilt. I’ve better ways to waste my time.”
~
He opened his door to find Ishida standing there, dressed casual, face expressionless save for a tiny twitch in his right eyebrow.
“Ishi--”
“I’m tired of these games, Kurosaki.” The Quincy strode inside as though he belonged, forcing Ichigo to backpedal. “I’ve always thought you to be an idiot, but I didn’t think cowardice was part of it, too.”
Ichigo frowned. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Something flashed in blue eyes. Then Ishida was there, hands fisted in Ichigo’s cotton shirt, pushing him back against the wall of his hallway. There was a gleam of light bouncing off Ishida’s glasses before his body pressed against Ichigo. And Ishida’s mouth fell over his, warm and wet. The kiss was fierce, demanding, less gentle and more claim.
A sound echoed in Ichigo’s throat, but he didn’t think to push Ishida away. Not when this was something he had been craving for so long.
“Get over yourself,” Ishida was saying in between kisses, eyes bright and fierce, missing their usual Quincy cool. “I’m not going anywhere. I’m not afraid of you.”
“You should be,” Ichigo retorted. His fingers enclosed Ishida’s wrists, a loose grip that neither pulled him closer or pushed him away.
This close, he could feel the rapid nature of Ishida’s breathing. He could smell the Quincy’s odd cologne and sense the frazzled nature of his reiatsu.
“We all go a little crazy sometimes,” Ishida muttered and kissed him again, pinning Ichigo between himself and the wall, tongue pushing into his mouth.
They kissed openly, sloppily, Ishida’s mouth sending twisting fire through Ichigo’s body. He knew he should be wiser. Should do the right thing and push Ishida away, end things before they could begin. But he didn’t. He just deepened the kiss, let himself dare wish for more.
One hand lowered, settling on Ishida’s hip, pulling the Quincy against him until their hips collided. An answering bulge pressed against Ichigo’s clothed erection. The other hand lifted, tangling in silky black hair that hadn’t changed for the passing weeks, months even.
“This is stupid,” Ichigo breathed. He mouthed along a firm, shaven chin. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“Shut up, Kurosaki,” Ishida retorted, hands releasing their death grip on Ichigo’s shirt only to slide under the thin cotton. “You always did talk too much.”
“Sometimes talking is important.”
“And sometimes, it’s overrated.” Ishida looked up at him, a stubborn set to his jaw. “It’s just a way for idiot Vizard to keep on acting like a moron with misplaced guilt issues.”
Ichigo teetered between amusement and offense. “I feel like I should be offended.”
“Don’t bother.”
A dark eyebrow twitched, the ardor cooling in the wake of serious talk. “Do you think I should be afraid of you? Is that it? Or it some kind of martyr complex? That you don’t deserve it because some part of you is a bit bloodthirsty?”
Ichigo felt sick to his stomach, but it had nothing to do with Ishida’s proximity and everything to do with his words. He twitched, extricated himself from Ishida’s arms, and something in his expression must have explained things. Ishida let him, let him slide against the wall and away.
“A bit?” he repeated hoarsely. “I stabbed you through the stomach.”
Ishida’s fingers twitched. The next thing Ichigo knew, the Quincy had pulled his shirt off, throwing it behind him to slap against Ichigo’s door. He was pale and lithe in the hall light, silver Quincy bracelet dangling from a wrist that seemed too thin in Ichigo’s opinion. One nimble-fingered hand splayed across his belly.
“See this?” Ishida said, tone cool but annoyed. “Not even a scar. Inoue’s abilities are incomparable.”
“That doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.”
Frustration flickered across Ishida’s face. “Why can’t you just accept that I don’t blame you? And neither does Inoue.”
Obviously, Ishida had missed the abject horror on her face. Must have missed it when he was bleeding out all over the sand, Zangetsu sticking from his belly.
Ichigo scrubbed a hand over his face and tried to rub away the unwelcome images. “What do you want from me?” he asked, voice ragged, only an echo of its usual strength.
Ishida lowered his hand but kept his gaze focused on Ichigo. His blue eyes were penetrating and incisive.
“Stop hiding. Stop running away.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“You’re making it complicated.” He shook his head sharply, the tension in the hallway rising and rising.
And what could Ichigo say to that?
It was the truth. He needed it complicated; he needed a reason to push Ishida away. It was better for all of them in the long run. Ichigo had no place in this world, in that world, or in the next.
Ishida released a frustrated noise. He dragged a hand through his hair, throwing the carefully ordered strands into disarray.
“Even if you hadn’t asked me, I would’ve done it.”
Ichigo stiffened. He knew without having to ask exactly what Ishida meant. The favor Ichigo had wanted all those months ago, hoping Ishida would never have to follow through with it and hating that the Quincy had been forced into it. Hating that Ichigo hadn’t been strong enough to stop himself.
He looked at Ishida, a new understanding coming to fruition, his eyes taking in the Quincy under a whole new light. There was more to this than Ichigo had ever known. More than a carefully cultivated relationship that had suddenly shifted into surprisingly new and dangerous directions.
“Don’t make me say it, Kurosaki,” Ishida said lowly, an edge to his voice that hadn’t been there before. “You know what I mean.”
Ichigo licked his lips, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. “How long?”
“Too long. Why else do you think I kissed you?”
“I thought I was hallucinating,” Ichigo said, trying for humor that fell far too flat in the wake of the emotion suddenly swimming through the room.
Nevertheless, the corner of Ishida’s lips curled toward a smirk as he rolled his eyes. “Only you, Kurosaki.”
Ichigo couldn’t have that. Not anymore. This distancing that Ishida automatically used. They knew each other too well for it. They had bled together.
“Ichigo.”
Ishida blinked. “What?”
Ichigo sucked in a slow breath. He forced his body into a calm rhythm, and his feet carried him forward before he could convince himself to stop this time.
“If we’re going to do this, call me Ichigo.” He lifted his hands, reaching for Ishida slowly, giving him plenty of time to escape if he wanted.
Warmth flooded blue eyes as Ishida held his ground. Simply waiting, accepting Ichigo’s touch as hands cupped his neck, drawing him close for a bittersweet kiss. Ichigo’s eyes slid closed as he let himself fall into sensation. The heat and softness of Ishida’s skin, the light cologne rising from his body, the tang of Quincy reiatsu in the air that mingled against his own.
“Are you going to disappear again?” Ishida demanded in between one kiss and the next. His hands found Ichigo’s shirt and gripped it fiercely the moment Ichigo’s own hands glided down, sliding along Ishida’s smooth and barely marked sides.
“No,” Ichigo answered honestly.
Even though parts of him still wanted to run away, throw himself out the window, and keep running until he was out of breath and out of road. It would be safer; it would be smarter. But since when had Ichigo ever bowed to either?
“Good.”
Ishida – no, Uryuu; he’d be Uryuu if they were going to do this – grabbed Ichigo. He dragged him down the hall to the sparsely furnished bedroom, the look in his eyes one that Ichigo refused to deny.
Not this time and not ever again.
****
a/n: I know this idea probably isn't the most original, but it's been in my head since that scene first appeared in the manga and it took this long to get sufficient inspiration for it. I tried a new tactic here with the dialogue scenes so I hope they weren't too confusing.
As always, feedback is welcome and appreciated.
This is for you,
hockeyiris , in hopes that things get better soon. ^__^ Enjoy!Title: Breathe In, Breathe Out
Characters: Ishida/Ichigo
Rating: T
Warning: massive spoilers, boykisses, slight OOC, language, violence, past character death
Words: 2115
Description: It was a simple request, and only hours later would Ichigo come to regret it.
Inspired by a song by Mat Kearney of the same name.
Characters: Ishida/Ichigo
Rating: T
Warning: massive spoilers, boykisses, slight OOC, language, violence, past character death
Words: 2115
Description: It was a simple request, and only hours later would Ichigo come to regret it.
Inspired by a song by Mat Kearney of the same name.
--------------------------------
Breathe In, Breathe Out
---------------------------------
Breathe In, Breathe Out
---------------------------------
“This is going to sound weird, but… I need a favor.”
“From me? Why not Sado?”
“Chad’s… different. I trust him to watch my back, but I’m not sure he’ll do what’s necessary. Not concerning… me.”
“What the hell are you talking about, Kurosaki? Start making sense.”
“Alright. Damn, don’t get your panties in a twist, Ishida.”
“I’m not amused. Either ask your favor or leave me alone. In case you’ve forgotten, we’ve got a mission to complete.”
“Fine. Stubborn Quincy.”
“Moronic Shinigami.”
“Look. All I’m asking is that if anything happens, I want you to stop me.”
“Stop you?”
“From doing something I’ll regret. From… from hurting someone.”
“You mean other than the dozens of Hollow and Espada we’re about to face.”
“You know what I mean!”
“Yes, I do. And I want to know what you think I’ll be able to do about it.”
“I don’t know. You’re the genius. You figure it out.”
“Hmph. Why am I not surprised?”
“You know what? Forget I asked.”
“Kurosaki.”
“What?”
“I’ll do it. But only because I know I won’t have to.”
There was a period of time when he lost himself to the blood. The smell and the taste of it and the pain that roared through his body. It was a time Ichigo couldn’t really count, trapped behind two-way glass as strong as concrete. Pounding fists against the unrelenting material, watching himself as though he were an outsider.
An outsider who could feel and taste and touch everything going on beyond him. Zangetsu’s hilt – hot and slippery in his fingers. The dry air of the desert, the flap of his shihakushou in tatters around him. Inoue’s tears, the taste of her fear. Ulquiorra’s disdain, the chilly bite of his Hollow reiatsu.
Ishida’s eyes and the way he stood between them.
The defiant set to Ishida’s shoulders and the worry that creased his brow. It was hidden in dignity and pride, but the worry was there.
Ichigo remembered screaming, shouting at himself from within his wall of glass. Remembered the sound of his voice echoing around him, growing louder and louder, but no one was listening. His fists pounded against the unbreakable, fingernails clawing and scraping. Laughter echoed around him, not his own. Hollow and grating, amused, mocking him.
“Not the king right now, are ya?”
His legs were weak, and Ichigo fought that feebleness, staring out a bleak black and white world splashed with red. At the blotch of white in front of him, wrapped in Quincy power, doing just as Ichigo had asked him to earlier. Only now, Ichigo wished he could rescind that request. It was a stupid thing to beg, and Ishida was going to get himself killed, and it would be all Ichigo’s fault.
Ishida’s hand on his wrist, so warm and hot, fingers applying a direct pressure. Ishida was telling him to stop. That it was enough. That any more and he wouldn’t even be human anymore.
In his glass prison, Ichigo agreed; he screamed at himself to stop.
The rest of him didn’t agree.
The feel of his hand whipping through the air, of his zanpakutou slicing forward, echoed throughout his entire body. Even more than the feel of Zangetsu slamming into Ishida, forcing the Quincy backwards, sending him flying. Worse than the feel of his own self proceeding across the ground, steps heavy with intent. His own dark reiatsu curling around him, focused at those ugly horns, aimed for Ishida. Defenseless.
Inoue’s scream seemed to echo his own, and Ichigo’s hands again slammed at the glass. He swore he heard the tiniest crack, the smallest sound of a splinter.
Ulquiorra rose out of the shadows, and the glass shattered into a thousand pieces, throwing Ichigo into darkness.
He remembered waking up to the sound of Inoue’s cries, Ishida’s gasp for breath, and the feel of a lingering Hollow reiatsu, teetering on the edge of annihilation. There was a crushing sense of understanding, of realization.
He’d done it. His hands. It didn’t matter that his Hollow had been in control at the time. The Hollow was part of him, some portion of him. It was the same as if Ichigo had done it himself.
“I’m sorry.”
“Quit apologizing. It wasn’t you.”
“It was me. And I am sorry.”
“It healed. I got over it. You should, too.”
“That’s not the point, Ishida! Shit, why do you have to be so stubborn?”
“Why do you? I said it wasn’t a problem, Kurosaki. So stop apologizing.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“It will be as soon as you let it go.”
“I can’t just-- Dammit, Ish—Uryuu, get back here.”
“I’m not going to sit here and listen to you wallow in misplaced guilt. I’ve better ways to waste my time.”
He opened his door to find Ishida standing there, dressed casual, face expressionless save for a tiny twitch in his right eyebrow.
“Ishi--”
“I’m tired of these games, Kurosaki.” The Quincy strode inside as though he belonged, forcing Ichigo to backpedal. “I’ve always thought you to be an idiot, but I didn’t think cowardice was part of it, too.”
Ichigo frowned. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Something flashed in blue eyes. Then Ishida was there, hands fisted in Ichigo’s cotton shirt, pushing him back against the wall of his hallway. There was a gleam of light bouncing off Ishida’s glasses before his body pressed against Ichigo. And Ishida’s mouth fell over his, warm and wet. The kiss was fierce, demanding, less gentle and more claim.
A sound echoed in Ichigo’s throat, but he didn’t think to push Ishida away. Not when this was something he had been craving for so long.
“Get over yourself,” Ishida was saying in between kisses, eyes bright and fierce, missing their usual Quincy cool. “I’m not going anywhere. I’m not afraid of you.”
“You should be,” Ichigo retorted. His fingers enclosed Ishida’s wrists, a loose grip that neither pulled him closer or pushed him away.
This close, he could feel the rapid nature of Ishida’s breathing. He could smell the Quincy’s odd cologne and sense the frazzled nature of his reiatsu.
“We all go a little crazy sometimes,” Ishida muttered and kissed him again, pinning Ichigo between himself and the wall, tongue pushing into his mouth.
They kissed openly, sloppily, Ishida’s mouth sending twisting fire through Ichigo’s body. He knew he should be wiser. Should do the right thing and push Ishida away, end things before they could begin. But he didn’t. He just deepened the kiss, let himself dare wish for more.
One hand lowered, settling on Ishida’s hip, pulling the Quincy against him until their hips collided. An answering bulge pressed against Ichigo’s clothed erection. The other hand lifted, tangling in silky black hair that hadn’t changed for the passing weeks, months even.
“This is stupid,” Ichigo breathed. He mouthed along a firm, shaven chin. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“Shut up, Kurosaki,” Ishida retorted, hands releasing their death grip on Ichigo’s shirt only to slide under the thin cotton. “You always did talk too much.”
“Sometimes talking is important.”
“And sometimes, it’s overrated.” Ishida looked up at him, a stubborn set to his jaw. “It’s just a way for idiot Vizard to keep on acting like a moron with misplaced guilt issues.”
Ichigo teetered between amusement and offense. “I feel like I should be offended.”
“Don’t bother.”
A dark eyebrow twitched, the ardor cooling in the wake of serious talk. “Do you think I should be afraid of you? Is that it? Or it some kind of martyr complex? That you don’t deserve it because some part of you is a bit bloodthirsty?”
Ichigo felt sick to his stomach, but it had nothing to do with Ishida’s proximity and everything to do with his words. He twitched, extricated himself from Ishida’s arms, and something in his expression must have explained things. Ishida let him, let him slide against the wall and away.
“A bit?” he repeated hoarsely. “I stabbed you through the stomach.”
Ishida’s fingers twitched. The next thing Ichigo knew, the Quincy had pulled his shirt off, throwing it behind him to slap against Ichigo’s door. He was pale and lithe in the hall light, silver Quincy bracelet dangling from a wrist that seemed too thin in Ichigo’s opinion. One nimble-fingered hand splayed across his belly.
“See this?” Ishida said, tone cool but annoyed. “Not even a scar. Inoue’s abilities are incomparable.”
“That doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.”
Frustration flickered across Ishida’s face. “Why can’t you just accept that I don’t blame you? And neither does Inoue.”
Obviously, Ishida had missed the abject horror on her face. Must have missed it when he was bleeding out all over the sand, Zangetsu sticking from his belly.
Ichigo scrubbed a hand over his face and tried to rub away the unwelcome images. “What do you want from me?” he asked, voice ragged, only an echo of its usual strength.
Ishida lowered his hand but kept his gaze focused on Ichigo. His blue eyes were penetrating and incisive.
“Stop hiding. Stop running away.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“You’re making it complicated.” He shook his head sharply, the tension in the hallway rising and rising.
And what could Ichigo say to that?
It was the truth. He needed it complicated; he needed a reason to push Ishida away. It was better for all of them in the long run. Ichigo had no place in this world, in that world, or in the next.
Ishida released a frustrated noise. He dragged a hand through his hair, throwing the carefully ordered strands into disarray.
“Even if you hadn’t asked me, I would’ve done it.”
Ichigo stiffened. He knew without having to ask exactly what Ishida meant. The favor Ichigo had wanted all those months ago, hoping Ishida would never have to follow through with it and hating that the Quincy had been forced into it. Hating that Ichigo hadn’t been strong enough to stop himself.
He looked at Ishida, a new understanding coming to fruition, his eyes taking in the Quincy under a whole new light. There was more to this than Ichigo had ever known. More than a carefully cultivated relationship that had suddenly shifted into surprisingly new and dangerous directions.
“Don’t make me say it, Kurosaki,” Ishida said lowly, an edge to his voice that hadn’t been there before. “You know what I mean.”
Ichigo licked his lips, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. “How long?”
“Too long. Why else do you think I kissed you?”
“I thought I was hallucinating,” Ichigo said, trying for humor that fell far too flat in the wake of the emotion suddenly swimming through the room.
Nevertheless, the corner of Ishida’s lips curled toward a smirk as he rolled his eyes. “Only you, Kurosaki.”
Ichigo couldn’t have that. Not anymore. This distancing that Ishida automatically used. They knew each other too well for it. They had bled together.
“Ichigo.”
Ishida blinked. “What?”
Ichigo sucked in a slow breath. He forced his body into a calm rhythm, and his feet carried him forward before he could convince himself to stop this time.
“If we’re going to do this, call me Ichigo.” He lifted his hands, reaching for Ishida slowly, giving him plenty of time to escape if he wanted.
Warmth flooded blue eyes as Ishida held his ground. Simply waiting, accepting Ichigo’s touch as hands cupped his neck, drawing him close for a bittersweet kiss. Ichigo’s eyes slid closed as he let himself fall into sensation. The heat and softness of Ishida’s skin, the light cologne rising from his body, the tang of Quincy reiatsu in the air that mingled against his own.
“Are you going to disappear again?” Ishida demanded in between one kiss and the next. His hands found Ichigo’s shirt and gripped it fiercely the moment Ichigo’s own hands glided down, sliding along Ishida’s smooth and barely marked sides.
“No,” Ichigo answered honestly.
Even though parts of him still wanted to run away, throw himself out the window, and keep running until he was out of breath and out of road. It would be safer; it would be smarter. But since when had Ichigo ever bowed to either?
“Good.”
Ishida – no, Uryuu; he’d be Uryuu if they were going to do this – grabbed Ichigo. He dragged him down the hall to the sparsely furnished bedroom, the look in his eyes one that Ichigo refused to deny.
Not this time and not ever again.
As always, feedback is welcome and appreciated.
